


The Bet And The Story

by ghettoassenglishman



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Film AU, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, OOC I guess, how to lose a guy in ten days, kind of i dunno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 22:05:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 41,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3871408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghettoassenglishman/pseuds/ghettoassenglishman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days AU</p><p>Mickey really needs that campaign pitch he's been working for, and in order to do that he has to make the curious redhead fall in love with him.<br/>Ian really needs to write a good article before his boss kicks his ass, and in order to do that he really needs a guy to drive insane. </p><p>Prompt: "Could u do a how to lose a guy in 10 days Au?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bet And The Story

**Author's Note:**

> So I found this in my files, and decided to finish it after someone prompted me to do a AU for the film, so?
> 
> Hope you like it!! I got the whole film doneeeee, so i'm pretty proud of myself ahaha

“ _Jesus_ , orange boy.” Svetlana leans back against the desk-chair, whistling as her eyes scanned over the last paragraph of Ian's article on the current healthcare debate. “It's brilliant, you didn't copy this off the internet did you?” Her Russian accents mumbles teasingly.

 

“Who do you think I am?” Ian's mouth drops a gape, hand slamming against his chest dramatically. “It's all mine.” He slides off his deck, dropping down beside the chair Svetlana was currently occupying.

 

Svetlana pushes the laptop screen down, wheeling away from the table. “Too bad it'll never be published.” She utters, sadly and almost sympathetically – Svetlana would never be remorseful, she just told Ian straight. She always had done.

 

“What's that supposed to mean?” Ian frowns down at Svetlana, both offended and confused.

 

Svetlana tuts, waving her hand around the polished room full of suits, out-spaced windows, clean floors and gold framed pictures. She rolls a magazine in her hands, swatting him over the head. “You always so stupid, orange boy, look at this place? It isn't really healthcare fucking friendly is it?” She shakes her head, muttering under her breath.

 

Ian knew she was only teasing, but her words still struck to his heart. “Advanced degree in journalism and I can't write jack-shit.” He clasps his hands together frustratedly. “and I'm stuck being some fucking “how to guy” at _Men's wear_ magazine.” He places his hands in speech marks, dramatically referring to his sadness of his shitty-ass life that didn't allow him to actually write what he wanted to. 

 

“Could be worse, count your luck you American dick.” Svetlana rolls of his tongue, the accent more hoarse than usual. She wheels from his desk, rounding over to her own desk, her messy-bun the only line of sight over the walls of the cubical.

 

Ian rolls his eyes, tongue shooting to the side of his cheek. “How could it be any fucking worse, ugh.” He leans against the side of his desk, hand running through the back of his hair.

 

“You could be “how to guy” without the tickets to that shitty Sox game.” Svetlana calls back from over her cubical, she chucks an envelope over the height of the desk, nearly taking out the potted fern perched at the side of it. Ian flinches, scrunching his eyebrows questioningly.

 

Ian adjusts his t-shirt, walking over to the fern tree that was toppled over the white paper. Inside are two tickets, ones which Ian had been driving himself to get hold of all week, tickets to the Sox game only two days away, a gold stamp on the two of them. “Holy shit. When did these come?”

 

“I got for you last night. Your flirting shit, red, I got all for _free.”_ Svetlana answers smugly, chin up proudly, as she fans herself with the rolled up magazine she had previously hit Ian with. 

 

Ian smiles genuinely, eyes widening with surprise. “What did you do, suck him off under the table of his office? Holy fuck,  _how?”_ Svetlana had always been able to get amazing deals, form schemes, and allude to many charming situations, without any hassle. Ian was lucky to call her his bestfriend, especially when she could get him expensive tickets for  _free._

 

Svetlana taps her nose, turning back to her computer. “You're welcome.”

 

“Woah.” Ian circles around her desk, pulling her chair around. “You're coming, I don't even care if you hate it.” He wiggles the tickets in the air, internally bursting with excitement.

“Don't try. You take sister, she has been begging you for them tickets all week.” She shakes her head, grinning at Ian's pure generosity. They both look around to shoot a joke towards Fiona, or to just send a grin her way, when they both notice that her desk is empty, computer turned off. “Wait, where the fuck is Fiona?” Ian asks, narrowing his eyes.

 

Svetlana shrugs, scanning around the office. Ian finally clicks, pinching the bridge of his nose. They always had a staff meeting on a Monday morning – which was only thirty minutes away – and the editor, or his bullshit brother, did not take kindly to said staff being late.

 

Ian nods, chucking his envelope into his open bag-pack beside his desk. “You get coffee, I'll get Fi. Meet you by the conference room in twenty?” He squints one eye, hoping that Svetlana would agree and help him try his sister back to the face of the Earth.

 

“Fucking Gallagher's and fucking life problems.” Svetlana mutters, reluctantly pushing herself from the desk.

 

Chuckling, Ian grabs his keys and heads out towards the door.

 

***

 

Fiona is in a bundle of blankets, acting out the worlds saddest cheese burrito, when Ian storms through the flat. Ian pokes her with the toe of his chucks, only getting a muffled groan in return. Fiona rolls away, the covers wrapping around her body even more.

 

“Get the fuck up.” Ian sings, grabbing a handful of the blanket, ready to yank it off if needed to. Fiona pops her head out from her fort, managing to send a scowl in his direction. “Fuck off.” She mutters, sleepily, her nose clogged and throat croaky.

 

Ian sighs heavily, yanking at the blanket harder. “None of that, Fi, get your ass out of bed. It can't be that fucking bad?” Ian knew from Fiona's previous relationships that they  _never_ went well, she always did the wrong things – somehow – and men just fucked and chucked her. 

 

“No, go 'way,” Fiona protests, kicking her leg out with fail to hit Ian. Her brunette waves are sprawled against the pillow, mascara mashed against the white sheets. “I've just been fucking dumped, I'm allowed to lie in. Just leave me alone.” She curls into herself.

 

Ian successfully pulls the blanket off her, smirking as his sister tried with her best attempt to grab it back. “You think you're allowed to lie in every day, now get up. Staff meeting in fifteen, you either get up now or we're both late.” He stands, hands on his hips, watching as his sister fails to get up.

 

“Don't care.” Fiona says, flipping him off, dragging the pillow over her face. “Fuck Lip and his stupid fucking meetings.”

 

Rubbing a hand across his forehead, Ian knows that this will take a lot of grovelling to get her out of the warmth of her bed. “I don't want to fuck my asshole brother, thanks, now get the hell up before 'Lana kicks our asses for making the coffees cold.” He walks over to the dresser, pulling out the drawers to retrieve some sort of respectable clothing that Fiona had left to wear.

 

Fiona grumbles some more, eventually dragging herself and out of bed. She lets herself be manhandled into clothes and into Ian's car, shooting glares each time Ian sighed or smirked beside her. “Fucking dick.” She mumbles, hands in her sleeves as Ian turns into the office parking lot.

 

“Fuck you, I'm trying to keep you a job. Lip would have your ass if he knew about this.”

 

Fiona gives Ian a sidelong look, glaring at every ounce of light that shone into her eyes. She kicks the back of Ian's leg as they go through the revolving doors into the office ground floor, but it doesn't stop her brother from teasing the shit out of her and the pathetic ball bags of hook-ups she always got attached to.

 

Svetlana stands by the conference room, angry look in her eyes as she passes the two their coffees, when they walk through the meeting room doors, she doesn't hesitate to ruffle Fiona's hair in a gesture of reassurance.

 

***

 

North-side wasn't the quietest of places, the roads were pretty busy each morning – especially in rush our, but Mickey finds it easier to navigate on his motorbike and the looks he receives doesn't hurt either. It's his favourite thing to whiz through the crowds of cars, and lines of taxis all blocking the road, the breeze flowing through his leather jacket. It matches his crude tattoos, he doesn't mind showing a little thug in the street. People had to know who he was down there, reputations can only go too far.

 

He slots into a space in front of the Ruby's and Diamonds Advertising building and tucks his helmet away, shaking his hair out of his face – winking towards the by passers that walked by on the side-walk. “Morning ladies.” He grins, saluting them as they walked by.

 

“Show off.” He hears the familiar, but most irritating voice he had ever heard.

 

“Oh, Maxwell. What a fucking pleasure to see you here.” Mickey says, sliding next to his colleague, a fake smile plastered against his face. It wasn't rocket science, he knew mostly all his colleagues hated him, apart from Mandy – but that was obvious, and sure it was really annoying but he'd be lying if he said he didn't enjoy it.

 

Max sends him a disgruntled frown. “It's Max, get it right Milkovich.” He flips through his magazine, nodding his head towards the recent “how to” article.

 

Mickey follows him towards the office reception, ignoring the rebuttal in favour of greeting the receptionist with his best grin. Mickey might be hated around the office but it didn't stop him from having a little fan-base that some how appreciated his shitty personality and work. Mickey clocks the magazine clutched in Max's hand, he snatches it. “ What's this? Fucking  _Mens wear,_ what do you need tips on, how to dress like a fucking dork with an oversized payment?” He chucks the magazine across the office, shaking his head. “Man, you wanted some tips you should just ask the master here.” 

 

“If I wanted the local thug to fucking dress me I'd ask.” Max snarls, scoffing slightly.

 

Mickey lays a palm against his heart, hand brushing against his well-worn and fading leather jacket. “You fucking wound me, man.”

 

Max gives a undignified huff of frustration, stepping out the lift and walks over to the open office area. “We have a meeting with them this morning, if you dare to care about your job at all.” He shoots Mickey a glare. “Alot of our clients run adverts in their magazine, maybe you should check it out, change it up a little?” He waves a hand towards Mickey's attire, turning his nose up at it.

 

“ _Men's Wear,_ hm.” Mickey taps his chin, mockingly. “Not really my style, the suits just don't quite fit.” He shakes his head, pretending to care, as his hands fall flat against the side of his thighs. 

 

“Wouldn't expect them to.” Max remarks, walking away before Mickey had the chance to chuck every insult under the sun at him.

 

He shakes the lame joke off, heading towards his desk at the end of the small hall. Mickey held a reputation within the office, massively known for copping off with women – but rumours were rumours, and it wasn't like any of them were true. It wasn't like any of those girls had dicks, so he could hardly work with them, could he?

 

“What the fuck is that smug look for?” Mandy's voice smacks his straight in the face as he opens his office door. There were perks of working with your sister; she does what you say, she doesn't try and climb on your dick, she pisses you off but its better than having some annoying, whining bitch that cries all day. She's got a cup of coffee next to her, spilt sugar against the wooden table.

 

Mickey flips her off, shrugging his coat off. “Oh you know, dicks in the workplace. Rather stick pins in my eyes that talk to that fucker for more than ten minutes.” He slumps himself into his seat, lifting his feet onto the desk.

 

“Fucking creep.” Mandy huffs, smiling a little. All she hoped was that Max walked by and actually heard that. Mickey pretends to gasp, smirking around the filter of his recently lit smoke. “What? he is. That dick has been rubbing it in my face _all_ morning that they're getting into the big bosses.” 

 

“What?” Mickey perks his head up, straightening up against his chair.

 

Mandy nods, letting out an unfair sigh. “That's why he's so fucking smug, John himself is coming up tonight. He's meeting them in that bar downtown to talk about it.” She flicks through more papers, ticking a few things off before looking at the weeks profits.

 

“That was my job.” Mickey says, sitting up against his chair as he leaned over the top of the desk. He'd been the one to make the calls, grease all the right palms with his significant charisma and sit through all the inane chatter and gossip. Mickey had been the one to actually bring up the topic of supporting the Men's Wear campaign, he had been the one that made everyone fully aware of the opportunity. This was his bitch. “This is my fucking bitch.” he reiterates out loud, Mandy nods but pulls a face towards her brother.

 

“At this point, I'm your fucking bitch.” She utters, slamming down yet another pile of files against the table as Mickey paces the floor. “You do know that we've never done jewellery before, Mick, we're all cars and fucking guns. Why would they give us fancy watches, which no offence big brother, but they won't find you trustworthy.” She nods towards his tattoo's, giving him the look of you-know-what-I-mean-asshole.

 

Mickey works his jaw, clicking his teeth together as he stares out the window. Mandy had a point. They weren't the most presentable or respectable people in the company, the didn't reflect the representation of professionalism. “I don't give a shit. Max and that other fuck are not winning us over in this one, they can suck ass.” Mickey flips up his laptop, clicking quickly onto his email, shooting his clients fast replies that usually weren't the truth.

 

“So, I'm guessing you want to know where the meeting is then? So you can get your fucking fix of winning those pricks over?” Mandy drags out, still concentrating on the storyboards laid out infront of her.

“Fuck yes.” Mickey replies, almost instantly.

 

Rolling her eyes, Mandy pulls out a small piece of paper. “The Stock, drinks after work. Just don't be an asshole, aright?” She knew her brother, she knew that he would make it his mission to piss the advertisers off, and she wasn't ready to bail her brother out of jail yet.

 

“ _Me?”_ Mickey gasps, over exaggeratedly. “Fine. I can't promise you shit though.” 

 

***

 

“A week long relationship is not enough to lose your job over,” Ian confesses, already knowing the details within that department. Guys had fucked him over many times, that's why he stuck to work and only work. It didn't leave him at the end of the night, and didn't pretend to do him good. He settles on the other side of Fiona, the group surrounding them like a swarm of bees.

 

“It was a week and a half.” Fiona pouts, ducking her head so she could fiddle awkwardly with her fingers. “ _And_ Gus was special. Really special.” 

 

Ian loved watching Fiona's life run like a television set, but he was getting sick and tired of hearing Fiona cry over some dumb guy that forgot to call. Apparently, so did Svetlana. “You scare him off again?” The Russian asked, nudging her leg against Fiona's.

 

Fiona peers towards the both of them. “Said I came on too strong, he needed some more space. Why do guys always need fucking space? All I did was tell him that I loved him, is that such a fucking crime?” She feels herself burning up, but calms once the chatter started back up in the room.

 

Ian spurts against his coffee. “You did  _what?”_

 

“I told him that I loved him, I do Ian. I really do.” She looks towards Ian wearily, as if he was the stupidest person on the planet.

 

Svetlana shakes her head, placing a firm hand against Fiona's knee. The brunette looks confused, exchanging glances between the two, looking for answers. Ian remembers the last time he had said those words, it felt like he had to say them – like he was forced – and the minute he told the guy how he felt the guy bolted. Bolted like lightning. Ian didn't want that again. Never again.

 

Before he could answer, Lip walks in followed by a trail of assistants. “Good morning.” He says in his usual intimidating tone, he waltzes over to the sofa facing the rest of them and sits himself down. Lip was their brother, but he wasn't really, he moved away at the age of sixteen, advancing his career in editing, apart from giving them jobs, the only time he really took to talk to them it wasn't exactly sibling bonding material.

 

Everyone choruses “good morning” back as Lip nods his head with confirmation, beginning to ask everyone on their updates on the latest projects.

 

Ian scratches the back of his neck, reminiscing in the short memories of Lip in his childhood, when he feels the room fall silent. Everyone looks towards him, Fiona nods for him to speak. Flustered, Ian fumbles for his sheet of paper that read his article. “My turn?” He asks stupidly.

 

Lip huffs, frustrated, nodding towards him with a frown. “Your turn.” He nods towards one of his assistants and turns back to Ian. “What instructional will you be providing for our fashionable yet hapless readers, little brother?” He tilts his head, creating a couple gasps in the room that remain unnoticed. 

 

Ian flips through his note pad, his pen rolling off the side of the paper. A couple of the sportswear editors snigger behind him, Ian scowls and quickly bends down to retrieve it. “Uh, well.” He starts, flicking a quick glance to Svetlana who shakes her head, knowing what he was about to do. He does it anyway. “I'm working on something a little different than my usual stuff, actually.”

 

“Different?” Lip raises an eyebrow, displeased but Ian rambles on anyway.

 

“It's a little more political than the how-tos we've done before, but I really thin-”

 

“Political?” Lip sneers, shaking his head displeased. He makes a disgruntled sound from his throat – definitely not a good sign. “Ian, this is _Mens Wear_ not _The Economist_ , yeah? We write about bags, suits, dating tips for the common Chicago male. Not politics. Start something new, pronto.” He waves Ian off, making the redhead slide helplessly back into his seat. 

 

He hides the article back into his pad, fuming internally at the lack of consideration against his work. He should of known better. Lip was a self-centred prick with no priorities for others. Maybe if he could write a how-to-stop-Lip-being-a-fucking-asshole article.

 

And maybe then he'd have a little excitement in his life.

 

Ian's daydreaming again, when he hears Lip call out on Fiona. He snaps his head up, latching his eyes onto Fiona who had curled backwards into her chair, eyes growing wide with alarm. Svetlana hums, leaning a little closer to Fiona. “She's a little off today, she's been dumped.”

 

“Oh.” Lip smirks a little. Fucking asshole. “You should write about it, huh? Could be interesting, I guess.” Fiona shakes her head frantically, she was not writing about her love life within a magazine, she shoots a look of alarm towards Ian, pleading him to get her out of it.

 

Lip nods, satisfactory. “I understand, being dumped is the end of the world apparently.” Lip remarks, harshly. “Anyone else want to write about it?” A few hands shoot up around the room, causing Fiona to make a noise that resembled a cat. That's when Ian flies his hand up in the air, without thinking of it before hand. “Ian?”

 

“Yes.” Ian confirms, way too fast. Lip crosses his arms, signalling him to elaborate. “I'll, uh,” He stutters, trying to come up with a quick idea that didn't massively offend his sister. Svetlana and Fiona are staring at him, sort of hopeful. “Well, Fiona here, in a relationship she does the... _wrong_ things. A classic example of how not to date.” Fiona glares, Ian flinches but tries to be as nice as he possibly can. “She's too available, too sincere. It's easy to walk all over her, and then she gives her heart away and they stomp all over it.” 

 

Lip leans forward, intrigued in where it was leading to.

 

Ian coughs, clearing his throat. “It could be more of a how-not to, you know?” He looks around, hoping that the rest were on the right track. “I could date a guy, and make all the classic mistakes that people make that drive their partners away.” The suggestion basks in the air. The office already knew he was gay, and he wasn't scared to prove he could do a good job in writing.

 

Everyone stay quiet, listening to Ian as he carries on.

 

“You know, text them too much after the first date, talk about my exes over dinner, that sort of thing ,I guess.” He slaps his hands against his legs, sighing as he finally felt a little relief.

 

Lip is sat, nodding along, tapping his pen against his note-pad. “I can see it. “How To Lose A Guy in 10 Days.” He broadly signs the headline with his hands, grinning wildly at the idea, and then claps once with finality, then he moves on. “Right, next?”

 

“Wait.” Ian cuts in, furrowing his brows. “Why ten days?”

 

Rolling his eyes, Lip answers. “Five is too short and the dinner is in eleven days.”

 

Shit. Ian looks towards the other two for help. Ten fucking days.

 

***

Ian's at his desk when Lip comes bowling up, with two dark-haired suited men with clipboards underneath their arms. He pressures his fake networking smile and turns to shake their hands.

 

“You're the how-to guy. What's up for next month?” One asks, eyes nearly popping out of his head.

 

Before he could answer, preparing a generic and simple concept, before he could escape as quickly as possible, Lip pipes up excitedly. “It's a dating how to. Or more a hot-not-to. Basically he's going to hook up with some poor dick and then drive him up the wall by acting crazy.” The two man nods, happily and intrigued. Lip does his hand gesture, all over again. “How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days.”

 

Ian rolls his eyes. Lip was fucking embarrassing, he really was. How was he related to him? “I've got ten days to do it,  _so,_ I better be off.” He bunches up his note-pad, laptop and his bag all in one arm, he nods towards Svetlana and Fiona who both step up. 

 

As they all duck around reception, Svetlana raises an eyebrow towards Ian. “Ten days, no way orange boy.” She shakes her head, snickering.

 

Ian knows this was a hell of a challenge, and he wasn't entirely sure if he was ready for this. “Yep. You know what this means?”

 

Fiona bites her lip, smiling as she leans her head back. “We're going out tonight, please say we are?” Ian nods, determined, mind set of writing the best article of the year. God, he really fucking loved his job sometimes.

 

“I'm getting me a hot piece of ass to drive insane.”

 

 

***

The Stock was packed, as Mickey expected, suits and cocktail dresses deep within the bar. The dining area was filled with posh twits, all sipping on glasses of champagne, instead of a cold beer that Mickey was internally hoping for. Mickey's in a suit under his leather jacket, though he made sure he skipped a tie. Yes, he was trying to impress the company, but he wasn't going to re-build himself just to look better than Max and his snotty groupies.

 

He's shown to the table as soon as he walks in, the hostess was acting flirty – way to flirty – and as much as Mickey showed his reputation as a lady-killer, she was barking up the wrong tree. “Sparkling or still?” She asks, briefly touching the side of his water glass.

 

Mickey snorts, pushing the glass away from him. “Get me something that will get me drunk, I can't deal with this shit music.” She straightens up, nodding as she scurries away towards the bar on the other side of the room. The hostess comes back with a bottle of beer, placing it against the mat on the top of the table.

 

As soon as he downs the bottle, he sees Max and two others walking through the crowd. They all sit down around the reserved table, John nodding towards Mickey in a welcoming but tough greeting. “Good evening, John.” Mickey puts on his best smile, mentally flipping off Max and who you thought was Tom across the table.

 

“Mickey, what a surprise.” John says, leaning forward against the table. “What are you doing here?”

 

Max snorts, earning a kick from under the table. “Yeah,  _Mickey.”_ His teeth gritted. “What are you doing here?” 

 

“I'm here to talk about the pitch, since it was my job I think its fair that I have a shot.”

 

Max's eyes narrow, his lips pressing into a thin line. Tom's hand clenches against the table cloth, clawing at the white linen. Mickey loved pissing them off, he grins around the table, lifting the jug of water to fill John's glass half-full.

 

John nods in gratitude. “It was your job. I appreciate you bringing it to my attention.” He sips at his glass of water, eyes glancing over Mickey's simple attire, he grins strangely. Max and Tom continue to exchange angry glances as Mickey relaxes back in his seat. “But, what makes you think you're capable of handling this campaign?” John asks.

 

“I just know.” Mickey answers stubbornly, sneering towards the other two across the table.

 

“Mens Wear isn't cars or Guns & Ammo though, Mickey. It isn't the same thing as selling jewellery.” John explains in detail, beginning to challenge Mickey. Mickey was never one to back down, he never got intimidated by some suits and flute glasses.

 

Mickey snaps back, effectively. “I'm aware of that, but really its a do the shit or lose the shit situation. I'm ready to broaden my horizons, take something knew on.” He scoots to the edge of his chair, pointing a finger to the glass of the table. “I've tripled the sales of every account you've given me, I can do the same with this. I'm your  _ man.”  _

 

Tom splutters across the table, his face growing red. “Milkovich, they don't want you sexing up the system. That's not their type of thing.” He smirks towards Max, believing that they had the last word and hopefully won. But Mickey wasn't loosing this pitch.

 

Max lays a hand on his partner's arm. “Mickey's great at making a certain kind of lifestyle appealing, but that lifestyle is not every elegant. You know?”

 

“ _Lifestyle?”_ Mickey tries to suppress his anger. “What lifestyle would that be, _Maxwell?”_ All he wanted to do was punch the pricks face, but he knew that wouldn't be good for his pitch. John wouldn't be too impressed when he sees the tattoos sprawled against his knuckles actually in good use. 

 

Tom leans forward, wiggling his eyebrows. “Oh you know the lifestyle, Mick.” He turns to John, putting on his best innocent face. “We've all seen you stroll into the office late with last nights clothes on, stinking of booze, hair all over-”

John holds a hand up, stopping Tom from going any further. Mickey feels the heat burning in his chest slowly dim down, his hands unclenching. John shakes his head, displeased. “None of that.” 

 

“They do have a point though, Mickey.” John tuts. “Your... lets say attire, isn't one that would attract our male demographic.”

 

Mickey wants to punch one of them, maybe all of them, instead he retreats back to simmering down, pulling out the confidence card. “I can attract any man I want.” The three pairs of eyes around the table go wide.

 

“Male?” Max snorts.

 

“That's an interesting statement, is that your coming out confession?” Tom jokes, earning a harsh swat from John who looks unimpressed and a little worn down.

 

Mickey swallows harshly, did he just do that? Shit. Only a few people actually knew that he liked it up the ass, Mandy being one of them, and yet he felt the need to show these fuckers that he could get any of the guys. “It's none of your fucking business.” He retorts, sharply before turning back to John. “I could get  _ any  _ guy in here to fall in love with me.” 

 

God, he wished that was true. But he could definitely do it.

 

“Care to bet on it?” Max asks, tapping the table top.

 

“Bet?” Mickey furrows his brows.

 

Max and Tom exchange another look, and Max nods. “We pick the man. You make him fall in love with you, bring him to the campaign in ten days. If he loves you,you win, you get the pitch.” They plan, smug look on their faces as the it ran so smoothly.

 

“Oh, now that's interesting.” John says. Mickey darts his head to the side, were they being serious? He had ten days. Ten days to make one guy fall in love with him. For all his life he thought that no one would _ever_ be in love with him, and yet – he had to make that happen within a ten day radius. But, he was fairly confident that he could keep a guy interested for ten days – he knew a lot of _tricks._ It seems thoughtless, using a guy just to win a pitch – but, it was the poor guys fault for getting involved in the first place. 

 

“Deal.” He confirms the plan, reaching over the table to shake John's hand. “Well, who's the poor fucker who has to deal with me for ten days?” He asks, looking around the table to catch all the smirks lined up.

 

Max snickers, scanning the room. Mickey feels the dread pool in his stomach, he hoped it wasn't some irritating, whining bitch. “We already have.” Tom smirks.

 

John leans on his elbows. “Someone in here then? Okay then.”

 

Mickey looks around, from table to table, through the crowd. There were plenty of men in the restaurant, some irritating, some  _ way  _ to gay to function. A few of them catch his tastes – one tall, dark-haired man laughing over cocktails while his mate is huddled in the corner, a slightly smaller guy in a fitted striped tux, tie loose ad buttons undone by the door. Max lifts a pointed finger towards the bar. “Him.” 

 

Mickey tries to follow his finger, it seems to point to a group of three; two women and one more than hot redhead, his suit is fitted tightly against his lean frame. His hands were cradling a glass of dark liquid, a smile beaming against his pale, freckled cheeks. Mickey only hoped that it was that guy they were pointing to, and not the beast behind that was wallowing in his own self-pity.

 

“Who?” John asks, intrigued, ducking his head around to look for their line of eyesight.

 

“Redhead, green suit.” Max describes, nodding again in the direction of the greek-god standing within the crowd.

 

Great. The hot redhead. Mickey always had a thing for redheads. This could be fun. “Done.”

 

He stands, pulling out his wallet from his pocket and slams some bills against the top of the table. He lands Max a firm hand against the shoulder, smirking as he knew he would do this. How hard could it be? “John, pleasure to see you. I'll see you at the dinner, where I will-” He nods smugly, already knowing he won. “-have my new man with me. You better watch the fuck out, boys.” He nods to them cockily, turning on his heel.

 

He had a man to land.

 

***

“Orange boy, _that_ one?” Svetlana points, tilting her head towards the bar, where a muscular man in a navy blazer, stood trying to get attention of the barman – his arms barely fitting into his suit. If Ian didn't batch him up, Svetlana sure would. Even if she did like girls, that guy might be an exception. 

 

“Too bulky, I'm a top remember?” Ian refuses around a mouthful of beer. The place is full of guys that all seemed to snobby, too up their own asses, for him to actually want to pick out from them.

 

Fiona sighs, smacking her brothers arm. “That one?” pointing directly to a small blonde, curly hair and a thin mouth. Ian wretches a displeasing groan, shaking his hand with the wave of his hand.

 

Svetlana swats him across the back of his head, pulling at the beer from his hands and downing its contents. “It ever occur to you that you're being fucking fussy? A dick is a a dick.” She questions, a judgemental look sprawled against her face.

 

Ian grins to himself, grabbing back his beer, his eyes still aimlessly scanning the room. “Every fucking day of my life.”

 

“Maybe you should do another lap, see if you anyone's come in that catches the eye.” Fiona suggests, already eyeing up someone lounging across the room.

 

Ian downs the rest of his beer, for some sort of confidence that some-how he had lost in mere seconds. “Good idea. Stay put bitches, I'll be back.”

 

He slowly weaves through the crowd, trying to check people out without being noticed. It felt extremely creepy, more than creepy, but then again he was going to drive a guy insane for the next ten days. He knew he should pick some totally opposite to him, someone he could easily push away without any struggle. His eyes catch to a guy leaning against the bar, he looks a little too cocky as he lounges against the top.

 

Ian is debating to walk over there, see what the guy was actually like, because he looks like a prick. Until Ian messily barges into something hard, or  _ someone.  _

“Shit.” He mutters loudly, trying to catch his balance when he finds himself gazes down at a cocked grin and a pair of bright blue eyes. 

 

“Watch where you're fucking going, firecrotch.” The guy with the light eyes says, grin widening once he's looked Ian over. Ian can't help but feel the tug against his lips. This guy was slightly smaller than him, maybe a little more that slightly, he had scruffy black hair that curled against his forehead a little, he had crude tattoos that he found more than interesting. The guy was wearing a black, fitted suit – no tie, no button up, casual and light. Yeah, Ian could work with this.

 

Ian splutters, holding his hand out. “I'm Ian.” Something touches his skin, electric, as if he's touched a live wire. He might blame this man before him for that. “Ian Gallagher.”

 

“Mickey.” The smaller man takes Ian's hand, a little too eagerly. “You gonna rid of your fucking death grip, I do need my hand you know.” Mickey whines, pulling his hand away from Ian's harshly. Due to the crowd, they are pushed into a pillar in the midst of the hectic mess of people.

 

“Shit, sorry.” Ian mumbles clumsily, wanting to smack himself in the face for loosing his cool. He needed to lure this guy in, he needed to make sure that he created an appealing impression. “Nice to meet you.” He stutters, hands still cradling his empty bottle.

 

Mickey's arches his brow, the collar of his shirt open to expose the long corded column of his neck. “Nah, man. The pleasure's all mine.” Ian opens and closes his mouth as Mickey's press together in a firm line. If anything , he had to play the part, Ian had to get the impression that he was flirting, that he actually  _ liked  _ him. 

 

There was a difference between being attracted to someone and _ liking  _ them. 

 

After a small pause, Mickey knows he needs to raise the bar in his game, he closes the space a little more. “You seemed like you were looking for something, red?” And God, he hated himself for using the seductive tone, but he really needed the pitch. Like  _ really  _ needed it.

 

“Did I? Past tense?” Ian challenges, stubbornly.

 

Mickey wants to scoff. This kid had balls. “Seems like you fucking found it, doesn't it?” Mickey leans closer, and the hair on the back of Ian's neck instantly stand up, his heart thumping against his chest.  _ No, can't think like that.  _

 

“Don't be too sure.” Ian wriggles a little, his lob-sided grin on verge of attack. He braces a hand against Mickey's chest, making sure he doesn't lean further in. He needed to stay focused.

 

Mickey's enjoying this. He's enjoying watch the guy before him trying to out smart him, trying to play hard to get. “Smart mouth, huh?” He whispers close to Ian's ear, one hand braced against the wall.

 

“You bet.” Ian smirks, before adding around the brim of his bottle. “Unattached?”

 

“Always.”

 

Ian nods. “Likewise.”

 

Mickey licks at his lips, “Surprising.”

 

Struck back at the words, because sure this guy was different, Ian asks. “Pshyco?”

 

“Rarely, interested?”

 

“Perhaps.”

 

Raising a suggestive eyebrow, Mickey bulks to courage. “Hungry?”

 

“Starving.”

 

“Leaving?”

 

Ian scans the room, looking for something with a smile against his lips. “Now?”

 

“I ain't taking you to some fancy-fucking restaurant so don't get all hopeful.” Mickey admits, openly. His sharp tone not budging Ian an inch. Ian nods, smirking, this guy sure was hot, but he was sure snappy and grumpy. The total opposite to Ian. Great.

 

“Lets get the fuck out then.” Mickey decelerates.

 

Ian pushes off the wall, holding himself up with the help of Mickey's arms. The countless beers from the night had finally started to kick in – or was that tingly buzz from something else? - anyway, he lets Mickey push him towards the door before he stops. “One second, I need to say goodbye to my sister and my Russian.” Ian tries to explain.

 

“Russian?” Mickey raises an eyebrow.

 

Nodding, Ian shrugs pushing through the crowd to find Fiona and Svetlana. They were craning their necks as he approaching, mouthing useless words towards him. “Found one.” He recites happily, a little giddy too. He takes the beer from Fiona's hands, gulping down the whole of the bottle.

 

“Shit, where?” Fiona asks excitedly, getting on her tiptoes to look around, bracing himself on Svetlana's shoulder. The Russian gruffly pushes her off, also scanning around the room to look for the fuck she would happy break the legs off if he hurt Ian. Even though, Ian would be the one doing the hurting.

 

Ian pushes the two from Mickey's eye sight, turning his back towards the smaller boy. “Brunette, small, tattoos against his knuckles. Literally right behind us.” He hopes the two don't look, he hopes that Mickey doesn't catch on that he's talking about him, but the two idiots look anyway. Fiona gives off a low whistle.

 

“Good choice, orange boy.” Svetlana smacks his back, almost proudly.

 

“Yeah, well, he's also cocky as shit, but he'll do. Wish me luck, and hey-” He passes his empty bottle back to them. “Hook up tonight please, stop fucking moping.” He brings them both into a group hug, squeezing his arms tight until they both cried out against his shoulder.

 

After reassurances, Ian leads the way out of the door. Mickey absently puts his hand on the small of Ian's back as they push through onto the side-walk. Pulling out his set of keys, he heads towards their mode of transport. His baby.

 

“A motorbike?” Ian's eyes widening, a mixture of fear but excitement riding in his bones.

 

Mickey stops at the edge of the path, looking over his shoulder. Ian some-how had missed the situation of the leather jacket,  _ and  _ how hot it fucking looked around Mickey's small but muscular frame. It looked unfairly good stretched over the breadth of his back, and Ian was more than excited to sit behind against on the bike, more than anything – he was excited to press his chest against his, his hands winding around it. 

 

“Don't piss yourself, Firecrotch, I have an extra helmet.” Mickey sits himself onto the front of the bike, his foot keeping it steady at the side. He passes the helmet backwards towards Ian, and swipes his hair back a little as he places his own on. “You fucking coming or what?” He asks, patting the seat behind him.

 

Ian huffs out a breath. God, If this guy wasn't hot things would have gone so differently. He tugs the helmet over his head, fastening the strap under his chin. He looked ridiculous. Mickey knows he needs to show more affectionate gestures, part of plan – it was all part of the plan – he leans backwards and tugs against the strap of Ian's helmet and tightens it.

 

“You look hot, Gallagher.” Mickey teases, smirking as Ian climbs on behind him.

 

The leather jacket Mickey's wearing is soft and supple against Ian's arms wrapped around his waist, the abs pressing through Mickey's shirt subtly. Mickey's back is warm against his chest as he slides down the seat, pressing up against him. His thighs press against Mickey's, straddling the bike, and Ian can't help that heat that curls and twists in his stomach especially when Mickey revs the engine.

 

“You ready to ride?” Mickey asks, his voice low and seductive, hand turning the gears of the bike.

 

Ian rests his chin against the brunettes shoulder, knowing that his deal would be easy, he smirks. “Are  _ you  _ ready to ride, Mickey?” 

 

Then Mickey laughs and for some reason, its the best thing Ian's heard all night.

 

***

Mickey didn't do dates. Mickey didn't do dinner. Yet, here he was in some crappy restaurant with a bickering redhead, that sure knew how to ramble. All he knew was that he really  _ needed  _ to impress the pants off Ian, and he wasn't exactly how he could do that, he just knew that charming this guy was easy. The place is his local diner, he and Mandy usually went in there when they were hungover or just moping around. They don't go there that much any-more.

 

Ian seemed easily impressed as they look over the menu. They both argue over what to get, what was less expensive -because apparently, Ian didn't like people buying him things. Good thing for Mickey then. Mickey lets Ian choose in the end, because after-all, he was trying to make the kid fall in love with him, it earns a lob-sided grin from the redhead, that Mickey instantly finds irritating.

 

“How is it.” Mickey tries to make conversation, waving his fork over to Ian's food; burger and chips.

 

Ian nods around his fork, “The food?”

 

Pulling a face, Mickey steals some chips from Ian's plate. “What else would I be fucking talking about?”

 

Ian shrugs, swatting Mickey's hand away with a grin. “I don't know, I guess, the date in general?” Mickey props his arm against the table, beer bottle dangling between his hands as he watched Ian devour the food.

 

“I guess both then.” He says, and Ian leans back against his chair – smug and up to no good.

 

The redhead smacks his belly, “The food is fucking amazing. The date is going pretty well so far, but you never know. Some guy might swoop in here and actually  _ flirt  _ with me.” Ian brings his own beer to his lips, smirking around the brim of its opening. Wiggling his eyebrows, he knows he's tispy.

 

“Watch it, fuckhead.” Mickey warns, tilting his head back to knock the rest of his beer. This was going to be a long night. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't attracted to the smug fuck before him.

Ian grins, leaning forward against his elbows. “Answer a question for me.”

 

Mickey feels like he's been answering Ian's questions all night long, and asking very few of his own. They've exchanged general information, where they're from – which was strangely the same place, they knew the same people. Fuck a couple of the same guys. Both knew that Lip was a utter dick. - what they do for a living, and basic family details. He also knew that Ian didn't know when to shut the fuck up. “Spit it out then, Gallagher.”

 

“True or false,” Ian starts, leaning further against the small table, eyes filled with innocence. “All is fair in love and war.”

 

Fuck Gallagher for being an insightful little shit. “What can of fucking question is that?” Mickey barks defensively, his laugh baring its edge. Ian shoots a glare, tilting his head. Mickey gives in, if only Ian knew. “Fine, fucking true.”

 

A smile splits across Ian's face. “Great answer.” He leans back in his chair, arms crossed against his chest.

 

“Want to come back to my place?” Mickey suggests, wanting to leave the restaurant and the uncomfortable feeling that it gave him. The place was nearing closing anyway, and the memories within it were also slowly fading.

 

Ian doesn't hesitate when he says, “Sure, why the fuck not.”

 

***

Ian grips a little tighter when the bike flies through the empty city centre, relishing in the feel of his hands clutched against Mickey's warm skin. Mickey feels a rush against his spine, each time Ian shifts his body closer to his. He's not used to carrying someone on the back, he hadn't let  _ anyone  _ on his bike before, but it felt rather nice to feel strong arms around his waist and a toned chest pressed against his back. Ian does spend a few moments fussing with his hair and grumbling when his helmet is pulled off, but Mickey just laughs at the stupidity of it all and leads Ian towards his flat. 

 

“ _Cosy.”_ Ian gasps as the door opens to the small but spacious flat. Its very high up in the building, and showed hints of decoration that stopped half-way through. There were stacked boxes littered around, bits and bobs falling from shelves and drawers around the room. There's a huge sofa in the middle of the room, a blanket spread over the top of it as it faced the television before it. Mickey waves Ian towards it as he hangs up his jacket, heading for the kitchen. 

 

“You want a beer, man?” Mickey calls, hearing Ian slump himself against the couch with a thud, the chair slightly creaking.

 

“Yeah.”

 

When Mickey gets back, Ian's sprawled in the left corner of the sofa, tucked back against the arm, his arm draped over the side as his legs tangled together. He's smirking a little, and Mickey can sense that he's pissed already, and he could also tell that he purposely brushes their fingers as he passes over his beer. “Thanks.” Ian nods, sweetly.

 

“Whatever.” Mickey pushes it off, sitting himself in the opposite corner of the chair, angling his body towards Ian's. He had no idea what the fuck he was doing. He didn't do _this._ All he had was one-night stands and made them leave before they passed out against his couch or his bed, he _never_ invited someone in without the intention to fuck. Mickey sips at his beer nervously, he needed to make Ian fall for him, he needed to make Ian feel _special,_ that's right, right? 

 

They stare at little, breath heavily against the small sips from their bottles, Ian taps his leg continuously, until he pitches forward across the expanse of the couch separating them and kisses Mickey square on the mouth.

 

Mickey makes a little noise of surprise at the impact, and kisses back almost instinctively. There's something about Ian's lips that tastes  _ different,  _ that feels new to his tongue. Mickey doesn't kiss. That's his rule, but this feels right, this feels  _ good.  _ But, he's so shocked at the kiss he can't focus on the kiss, on doing all the little things that make it good; the lip biting, the hand grabbing. And he's still scrambling to get his brain back on track when Ian pulls away. 

 

Ian uses his annoying techniques, starting his game early, as much as he wanted to taste Mickey's lips. “Shit, Sorry. I'm sorry. We really shouldn't.”

 

Mickey blinks a good couple of times, trying to work out what the hell happened. Ian's rubbing a hand through his red hair, ducking his head a little. Mickey feels a little insecure that the kiss was shit, due to him, and he couldn't let that happen because he was meant to keep this guy for ten days. So he leans forward, slamming his beer against the coffee table, and takes Ian's face in his hands and pulls him in for a proper kiss.

 

Ian pulls back again, mainly for the fact that he knew it made Mickey more frustrated, and as Mickey was just getting started he playfully misses his mouth and braces a hand against his chest. He runs a finger over Mickey's longing bottom lip, “I don't want to go too fast.” He says, using his most pathetic and whining voice he could find.

 

Mickey nods; he's right, this is a marathon not a sprint. Mickey had to act like he wanted Ian to  _ fall  _ for him, the couldn't go too far on the first date. (Fucking hell, he wished they could) 

 

Falsely, Mickey smiles towards Ian, hand resting on his hip. “You're right. We need to take this shit slower.” He punches himself internally, willing to just pounce on Ian. But the kid was being weird, being a little distant, as if he had changed his attitude from before.

 

Ian shifts off Mickey's lap, sliding back to his corner of the couch. “Yeah, slow is good.” He mutters to himself, wishing that the whole deal was off just for this moment so he could fuck the hell out of Mickey.

 

They finish their beers and Ian decides to call it a night, getting a taxi home.

 

Mickey steps before him, hand pushing against his chest. “Are you sure, I could fucking drive you, Gallagher?”

 

“I think I've had enough of living on the edge tonight, don't you?” Ian says, digging out his phone. “But before I call the taxi,” He says, holding out his phone, shoving it into Mickey's chest, a black contact page pulled up.

 

Rolling his eyes, Mickey punches in his number and name, shoving back to Ian with a gruff. He opens the door, dramatically waving his hand as Ian takes the gesture and walks out of the door. Mickey leans against the frame as Ian presses the button the lift.

 

“Night Mickey.” Ian sounds sweet, biting at the corner of his lip.

 

Mickey flips him off, grinning deviously. “Fuck off.” When Ian disappears into the lift, the doors finally closing, Mickey mentally pats himself on the back.

 

So far, so good. Ian was hooked.

 

He didn't notice the envelope stuffed beside the sofa cushions until the next morning.

 

***

Svetlana hits Ian over the head with the the comb she had been brushing her hair with. “You left tickets at his flat, are you fucking crazy?” Svetlana sounded more horrified at this prospect than he had when Ian had asked if it was alright for him to give her ticket away.

 

“I _am_ crazy, I've got a letter from the government that proves it.” Ian laughs, earning a hardened glare from his sister. She hated it when he spoke of his disorder like that. “But, don't fucking worry about them. He's probably found them, now we just wait.” 

 

“For what?” Fiona asks, and as if planned the delivery man appears at the edge of Ian's desk, holding out a box tied with twine.

 

“Ian Gallagher?” The man asks, holding out a clipboard for him to sign. “Sign at the “x”” He hands Ian the pen, in which he quickly signs his name in excitement for what was in the box.

 

He snips the twine with a pair of office scissors and opens the lid of the box, already smelling the delicious smile of chilli-chips and relish. Nestled inside, was a burger and a batch of chips. It was perfectly placed on the plate, a replica of his meal from the night before. “Mr fucking Romance” He mutters, finding a card stuck to the side.

 

“I don't get it.” Fiona mumbles.

 

Ian holds out the card, reading it out. “I wanted to remind you of the best night of my life.” His heart nearly bursts, but he can't help but feel a tug against his heart string that told him this was all for his article, and that he  _ needed  _ to stay focused. 

 

Svetlana snatches the card, snickering behind him.

 

“He's in marketing, give him a break.” Ian pulls the card back, placing ontop of the box.

 

“Is this what we're waiting for then? The sign that he found those tickets, Jesus Ian.” Fiona whines from beside him, trying to get her hands on the food within the box. He swats her hand away, grinning to himself – least he chose wisely.

 

Ian pulls out his phone and the two lean closer to his side. “Lets find the fuck out, shall we.”

 

He texts smirking;

 

_ You trying to make me fat?  _ . He doesn't add a name because he's hoping Mickey already knows who it is, hoping that Mickey hadn't sent burger and chips to multiple men in the same morning. There's a sense of anticipation, a pause that felt like forever, until the phone starts to ring. 

 

Mickey's voice is low, sleepy and rough against the line. “Gallagher.”

 

Ian clenches his eyes in relief, mouthing to the other two “ _ Mickey”  _ as they clutter closer to his ear and the line of the phone. “Er, hey, Mick.” Ian stutters, trying to be sweet. 

 

“You're fucking dumb.” Mickey mutters, huffing out a laugh. Ian turns to Svet and Fiona and puts his thumb up, giddily. “You fucking left two tickets on my couch, any reason why?”

 

Ian plays up with his innocent tone for his audience of two, as he acts utterly oblivious. “Oh, did I?”

 

Mickey scoffs against the line of the call, “You did. You normally carry around Sox game tickets in your pocket?” he asks, trying not to laugh. Ian wants to kick his legs in joy, jump around the room,  _ something  _ that showed how well this was going. 

 

“You have them? Thank goodness, I was afraid I'd lost them!” Ian acts out, fluttering his eyes for dramatic effect.

 

Fiona muffles a laugh into the back of her hand, whilst Svetlana shakes her head muttering “fucking dickhead” in Russian. Ian flaps his hands backwards, trying to shove them off with the phone still pressed at his ear.

 

“Fucking dickhead.” Mickey laughs half-heartedly. “Good job I fucking found them, ay Gallagher, guess you'll have to pay me back and bring me with you, huh?” Mickey sounds like he's grinning, like he's excited and Ian knows he's got this man hooked. And he's really fucking proud.

 

“ _Oh.”_ Ian drags out, making it as remorseful as he can while grinning like a loon. Mickey didn't know what was hitting him. “I already promised to take someone else.” He clenches one eye shut, waiting for a reaction or an answer. 

 

“Fuck 'em” Mickey blurts, unaffected on his end of the line. Ian lets out a laugh, not knowing whether it was real or he was just putting it on for effect. “I'm _way_ more fun than some fucking girl from your office, you left me hanging last night. You owe me, Gallagher.” 

 

Ian has to actually mute the phone for a moment to gather himself up again. Fiona is grinning behind him, high-fiving Sve with enthusiasm. Ian makes a huge effort not to laugh out loud, he puts on his best im-a-whining-bitch voice. “ _ Ah,  _ always a charmer, ay? Meet me at the ticket office an hour before the game?” He suggests, the three of them hovering around the phone as they wait for an answer. 

 

“Right, yeah, whatever.” Mickey knocks it off casually, still trying to keep within his act of making Ian fall for him – he felt the pitch falling into his hands more quicker, it was just there to grab.

 

Ian hangs up and sets the phone down against the desk with a flourish. “Shit, were you taking notes?” He asks, he knew that whining phone-calls and set up leaving the tickets idea would rock up well within the article. Svetlana shakes her head as Fiona tries to gather herself from laughing.

 

“Fuck off, that's your job.” Fiona mutters, wheeling herself around on her chair on over to her desk to grab some pen and paper. Svetlana shakes her head, confused but more concerned that Ian might actually like the guy they were planning on terrorising. “I don't get it. You taking him to a game, how is that bad boyfriend?” She asks, gesturing her hands out like _how?_

 

Ian makes a  _ ah  _ sound, sitting himself against his chest and swivelling to fact the two. “It's not taking him to the match that makes me a bad boyfriend-” Wait, were they already at that stage? Jesus. “It's how I'm going to act while we're there.” Rapidly, he pulls his laptop closer to the edge of his deck, whipping up a word document. “Right, tell me things that would fuck up your enjoyment of a baseball game?” Because that was what he would do. He would make the game so annoying, and so frustrating for Mickey – that he would  _ have  _ to leave him. Deal done. Article written. New promotion. All he needed now was some good ideas to do that. 

 

Fiona is the one the move, the experienced member that knows  _ all  _ about pissing boyfriends off. “Listen up, fuckhead.” She pushes herself next to him, as she starts rattling off a list. 

 

 

***

Ian starts off by getting their half an hour late. There was nothing more irritating than missing the first half of the game, especially when Ian knew how big of a fan Mickey was. If this ten days was his limit, he needed idea's fast, and he needed Mickey gone within that time span. However, he needed to build it, he needed to drag it out a couple of days so he had enough material to write from.

 

Once Ian arrives, Mickey is already pacing among the crowd by the entrance, Ian even smirks when he sees Mickey silently curse to himself as he checks his watch again, and again.

 

“Shit, I'm so sorry.” Ian calls over, trying to be as cute and innocent as he could. This needed more. “I couldn't get my hair right, you know, the sun and everything. It fucks it up.” And oh _lord_ he knew this would work because he could literally feel the annoyance radiating off Mickey like a heater.

 

“ _Fuckin-”_ Mickey grunts harshly, only just realising that he had to make this guy fall in love with him. He needed Ian to actually like him. But he made him miss half of the fucking game. Just no. “It's fine.” He simply remarks, swaying Ian over to the ticket desk.

 

They both show their tickets, Mickey striding to the entrance, before Ian finds something else that catches his eye. He had to be as annoying as he could, and he'd have a great time doing that. “Oh, programs! I need some of these.” Ian yells, running over to the box, his hand gripped to Mickey's elbow.

 

The brunette shakes him out of his grip, trying to be gentle but Ian doesn't notice either way. Mickey handles himself pretty well, and _too_ well, Ian knew this would be a challenge. For the fifth time, Ian points out a certain booklet, shaking his head when he notices he doesn't want it. Mickey keeps cursing under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck as he tries to catch the game from where they were standing. “Come on, Gallagher, we're missing the fucking game.”

 

“ _Oh,_ how silly of me.” Ian acts, thanking the guy at the box and walking over to the crowded benches. They can already see that they have started the second half. Ian swears Mickey turns to look at him, frown against his face, _yes_ he thinks. All in good time.

 

Ian smiles brightly, almost falsely, as they shuffle past the crowd to get to their seats. Mickey is too attached to the game to even care, he bumps into the armrest he knee hitting hard against the metal. Bobbing around a little, he reforms himself into his thug-like attire. “Fucking chairs and their fuckign-”

 

“Are you alright?” Ian asks, dropping his programs to the floor and then started to pat Mickey's shoulder.

 

Mickey nudges him off, trying to give him a week smile. _Gallagher was going to fucking annoying. He knew it was too good to be true._ “Fine.” He grumbles, before turning to Ian. “I'm great, really great, but what a view, ay?” He suddenly retorts his anger, and Ian's both confused and aroused at how he did that.

 

Ian knows Mickey is clearly trying to be kind, trying to act like Ian was irritating him, and Ian knew that he was going to much harder to drive away that he thought, but Ian didn't want to pull out the big guns just yet, he did have eight days left after all.

 

The game turns tense, it was the perfect moment for Ian to fuck up this date. Was it a date? Mickey didn't make it clear if it was, but Ian was ruining this tense moment anyway. “Can you get me a drink?” He asks, nudging Mickey's legs a couple of times, especially the one he had bumped earlier.

 

Mickey's fists are clenched with the suspense, his eyes don't leave the game at all. “Get your own fucking drink, you've got legs use 'em.” He barks back, grunting through his throat as the game got even more rivalled up.

 

Ian groans dramatically, sitting himself down. “I don't want to the miss the game.”

 

“Neither do I.”

 

Tapping his fingers against his knees, Ian tries to think of another route. Maybe the guilt trip route. “You wouldn't be here if I didn't pay, so you kind of owe me.” It's all he's got. But maybe Mickey was one to not take shit of someone. His knuckles sure possessed that idea.

 

Mickey turns slightly, hands still in fists. Ian flutters his eyelashes, licking at the corner of his mouth. After a huff, and a stamp of a foot, Mickey finally caves. “Fucking fine, but I miss this shit you're dead, you know that?” He knows he needs to make Ian fall for him, but he would help that happen when he wasn't missing the most important game of the year. Maybe getting this drink would just shut Ian up. Hopefully.

 

Ian can't help but grin when Mickey grumpily passes through the crowd of people. When he gets back, Ian winks grinning like a five year-old. As much as he wanted Mickey to get annoyed, or how much Mickey fucking beamed in the sun, he really did want to watch the rest of the game. He could give the guy that at-least.

 

“You fucking prick, just fucking _score_ you incapable basturd!” Ian is yelling once Mickey is back, after missing two scores, he looks at him narrowly.

 

“Jesus, calm down, Gallagher, it's just a fucking game.”

 

Ian shakes his head, forgetting about his act in this moment of defence. “Shut the hell up, this is _life._ If we don't win I lose fifty bucks.” Which was true, but the fifty bucks wasn't on the game, it was on how long Mickey would last without leaving the stadium in anger or annoyance, either one would be good.

 

However, Mickey was upturning in unexpected events, he actually stayed. He stayed and listened to Ian bitch, moan, whine about his drink, grow in anger at the fuckhead blocking his view. It was annoying as chill and relaxed he had taken things.

 

It was even _more_ annoying that he just lost fifty bucks.

 

As soon as they leave the stadium, Ian's already running over to the cab. Mickey looks dazed, almost annoyed that yet again Ian was leaving him again. They both knew secretly that each of them were hard to crack. Mickey hates thanking people, he really does, but Mandy had said _You've got to show your gratitude, guys love shit like that._ So Mickey does. “Ay, thanks or whatever.”

 

Ian huffs out a laugh at Mickey's attempt of a thankyou, he pulls open the door to his cab. “Thanks for the drink.” He shoves the empty cup into Mickey's chest, wiping the edge of his mouth, wiggling his fingers as Mickey's eyebrows shoot to his forehead. As soon as the cab pulls out, Ian's already texting Fiona.

 

_I think I was adequately annoying, no wonder you got dumped._

 

He can't help but laugh at the instant reply.

 

_Fuck off asshole. I feel sorry for the guy._

 

_***_

“How was the match?” Mandy immediately asks as Mickey storms into the office. As usual, they both walk up to the conference room. Mandy hands him neatly typed pages of their notes shoving them into his chest. Mickey rolls his eyes, memory running back to the night before, he quickly skims the papers as he walks.

 

“Oh, don't even get me fucking started.” He groans, finally letting his words out. Mandy laughs. “The match itself was amazing, fucking _exhilarating,_ except the fact that I missed the best part.” He wasn't angry, really he _wasn't._

 

Scoffing, Mandy knocks his shoulder with her own. “Why, this guy _that_ distracting. Or were you fucking under the benches and _happened_ to miss the whole thing?”

 

“More like fucking annoying.” Mickey stops by the meeting room door, making sure that Max and Tom didn't hear what he was saying.

 

“So you didn't fuck?”

 

Mickey clasps a sharp hand against her mouth, shushing her. “No we didn't fuck, why the hell you want me to get laid so fucking badly?” She shrugs, her grin clear as day under his palm. Rolling his eyes, he lets her go. “No, he fucking shows up half an hour late, makes me look like some fucking bitch going to get a drink for him _that_ he literally chucked at me.” It felt good to finally get that out.

 

Getting someone to fall in love with you was a hard fucking business.

 

It was more than that, Mickey didn't have a clue to explain Ian's sudden change in personality. One second he was being some sassy, witty typical south-side kid, that laughed at Mickey's jokes, that actually was _normal,_ and the next minute he's tuning out of the game, making Mickey slave around for him, acting like a whining bitch. It was like being out with two people at the same time.

 

Mickey couldn't handle being out with one, never mind two.

 

“It's fucking weird. At points I can tolerate him, maybe even _like_ him. But every now and then he's like some fucking-” Mickey hesitates, not wanting Mandy to smirk at him and tell him he had an obvious crush on the guy. Which he did not.

 

“Crazy-chick?” Mandy supplies, finishing his sentence.

 

Mickey shakes his head laughing, “I don't give a shit. I've gotta make this guy fall for me, and then that's it. I've got the pitch. Just got to survive his annoying-ass for a couple more days.” It felt as if he was talking to himself, probably was. “Then I'm out. That kid is gone.”

 

Mandy nods, as if she wants to say something but they are rudely interrupted when Max and Tom come charging through, pushing open the white doors to the meeting room. The meeting is going to shit, like real _shit,_ their creative director is insulting every single page they had batched up, every storyboard they had drawn out. Mickey wants to punch the dick, his leg shaking under the table. Mandy grabs his arm, settling him a little.

 

That's when the phone in the middle of the huge table comes to the life, the intercom blasting out.

 

“Mr. Higgins, there's a call for Mickey on line two.” The receptionist says, and the director narrows his eyes and than back at Mickey.

 

“Can't it wait?”

The receptionist switches lines, before turning back. “The caller says no, sir. It's important.”

 

Again, Higgins huffs out raising his brows. Then he waves towards the phone, looking more unimpressed than he did at Mickey's samples. Mickey nods quickly, glancing over to Mandy who just shrugs and gestures towards the phone. Awkwardly, he reaches over the table and pulls the handset towards himself.

 

“What?” He lifts the phone to his ear, immediately assaulted with some sort of odd cooing noise that finally merges into Ian's low voice.

 

Ian giggles a little, and Mickey already knows its the _other_ side of Gallagher. “Hey, cutie.” Ian calls out, sweet as a fucking pea. “I miss you.”

 

God, could this get any-more worse.

 

Mickey turns in his chair, facing his back towards the director. In a low voice, he coughs out, not really wanting to say but he had to. “I, uh, I guess I miss you fucking too.” Out the corner of his eye he can feel Max and Tom glaring at him, startled eyes. Mickey chews against his gum, playing it up a little now he knew they were watching. “Ay, Gallagher. That game was sick last night, when can I see you again?”

 

There's a beat of silence on the other end, like Ian had put him on hold for a couple of seconds but he doesn't question it, then Ian's voice roams back – high-pitched and slightly coy. “Oh Mickey-wickey-icky, whenever you want.”

 

Jesus fucking Christ.

 

Mickey pinches the bridge of his nose – what happened to the upbeat, smart-ass Gallagher that he had picked out in the bar? These days were going to drag like fucking herpes. “Tonight? The cinema or some shit?”

 

“My choice?” Ian sounds hopeful, _too_ hopeful.

 

“Yeah, whatever.” Mickey agrees, regretting the words as soon as they left his mouth. “Listen, Firecrotch, I'm in a meeting so I can't fuck this up. Just pick a time and I'll be there, aright?” Ian lets out a squeal, Mickey hopes its fake. No one should make that noise, _ever._

 

“I can't wait.” Ian giggles, a little over dramatically, before Mickey knew it Ian was planting kissing noises down the phone – he immediately hangs it up. He plasters a grin against his face, as much as Ian was annoying – this kid was falling for him, most definitely. “Sorry about, just some fucking guy.” He puts the handset into its cradle.

 

Shuffling the papers, Higgins gets back to insulting. Mandy claps her hand against Mickey's back, a ridiculous grin beaming against her cheeks, wiggling her eyebrows. It's a good time to act smug, he guessed, Max and Tom were definitely angry about his bet working out. All in good time.

 

***

Ian had instantly text him the times of the film and the cinema, just minutes after the call, Mickey would of found it extremely irritating and fucking clingy, but it was a step closer to the guy getting him that pitch he'd always wanted. He really wants to pay the fuck back, go there late, but he really couldn't deal with Ian's whining and bitching all night, so he rocks up a couple of minutes before, wishing he had gone late since they were going to watch a fucking _romantic comedy._

“You've got to be fucking kidding me.” Mickey mutters, eyes suddenly directing to Ian who was running full speed a head towards the screen. This was Mickey's idea of hell, especially when the film had fucking Z _ack Efron_ in it. Balls to that.

 

Ian was beaming like an idiot, and it was fucking _annoying_ as hell. The screen was filled with couples, all hugging and clinging to each other. Mickey wants to die when he feels Ian's arm hook into his. This shit was getting out of hand. _Keep your cool._ He breathes to himself, letting Ian's gesture of affection slip away between his fingers.

 

Mickey was really enjoying Ian's silence, as much as that thought made him feel guilty, it was true. Ian had finally switched to the smart-ass that Mickey remembered him to be, and he was planning on keeping it that way for the rest of the night. When the redhead wasn't being a bitch, or crying for snacks and a sip of his drink, he was actually kind of _hot._ Kind of nice to.

 

Unfortunately, this film wasn't that.

 

As the lights flicker against Ian's pale skin, he takes a moment to gaze over his profile. Ian _had_ to have worked out, his arms were hench as fuck, and his chest was literally peaking out of his tight blue shirt. Mickey knew he wore it on purpose, it was pretty fucking obvious actually. Ten days with this guy, this _hot_ guy as long as he wasn't begging and pleading like the chick. Yeah, Mickey could work with that, he could get a little enjoyment before getting the pitch.

 

Suddenly, Ian turns his face to him, one hand gripping on Mickey's wrist and pulling it around his own shoulder. Mickey groans, rolling his eyes in the dark. Ian puts his hand into the popcorn in Mickey's lap, pressing down against the tub a little. They lock eyes for a moment.

 

Mickey can do this.

 

However, half-way through the shitty movie, Zack Efron's body is on full display – all toned and sweaty, his smooth voice flowing through the walls of the screen, Ian leans in against him, lips close to his ear in a whisper. “Do you think Zack Efron is fuckable?”

 

Mickey blinks, unmoved but still uncomfortable with the question, he darts his eyes over Ian, ignoring the scowl from behind them. “Nah, man. I'm more of a Segal type of guy. Fucking pony-tail of dreams.” He tries, and he knows he's fucked up when Ian scoffs neck to him.

 

“ _Really?”_ Ian's voice is loud with shock. “Van Damme would totally kick his ass.”

 

Mickey wasn't exactly expecting that. It had been better than any other answer than he could of gotten. Ian was _Ian,_ and he really fucking liked it.

 

There are people shushing them from behind, which just doesn't go down well with Ian apparently. Mickey had more self-control than that. “It's a fucking sex scene, shut up you creeps.” He turns back to Mickey, his face switched completely from _hot fucker_ to _whining bitch._ “Do you think he's better than me?”

 

Mickey looks around wildly, ready to punch any fucker that might actually want a fight. He ignores Ian's question, trying to get the whole screen to calm the fuck down before they ruin his chance to win his deal.

 

Ian must see it, because his voice gets louder, and almost shrilling. “Are you _embarrassed_ by me?”

 

Mickey wants to smack that whining face off of Ian and shake the cute, hot fucker out of him, until the guy in-front turns fully in his seat, glaring up at them angrily. “Can you shut the fuck up, we're trying to watch this.”

 

Before Mickey has the chance to shout back, maybe even flip the guy off, Ian's already there cursing under his breath, starting a gesture – but that's before the tub of popcorn knocks from Mickey's lap, the contents spilling over the front seat and all over the two that were scowling at them.

 

“Oh shit. I'm sorry. Fuck.” Ian immediately reacts, and Mickey swore he saw the old Ian coming back to the surface. It was like watching two people at once.

 

“Outside.” The guy points towards the exit, standing up against his seat. Mickey bursts out laughing, was this guy serious? Ian could beat him in a light, he might be a ball of fucking goo, and really fucking _weird,_ but he could throw a few punches – Mickey hoped.

 

“Please.” Ian scoffs, defensively, he hooks a hand under Mickey's arm and drags him to his feet. “My boyfriend could totally kick your fucking ass.”

 

_Boyfriend?_ Oh my god. Mickey felt sick. Even though that meant a step closer to his goal, he still didn't like labels, and he still had never actually been one and never really wanted to. “What the fuck, Gallagher?” He yells over the sounds on the screen.

 

The people behind start yelling for them to sit down, chucking sweets and popcorn at them aggressively. Mickey wants to leave, he wants this shit out of the way, he wants the campaign to hurry the fuck up. He starts making his way out of the row, dragging Ian with him, arm still hooked with his. That's until Mickey realises that the guy is following him, leaving his girlfriend on her own in their seats.

 

As soon as they get out, Mickey pushes Ian off of him and launches a punch into stalkers gut, kneeing him in the face to knock him to the ground. “Jesus, Mickey!”Ian yells, hand at the back of his head. Before they both knew it, the guy was leaping from the ground and pulling Mickey over onto the carpet, his fists hitting him repeatedly in the face. Ian joins in then, pulling the fucker off Mickey and sending a kick into his ribs.

 

“Fuck.” Mickey gasps out, clutching a hand to his face.

 

“Come on.” Ian grips Mickey's hand in his, lifting him up effortlessly. Before security, or worse the police, came Ian pulls them both out of the cinema. “Jesus. Your face is fucked up pretty bad.”

 

Mickey sways his head from Ian's touch, not wanting to be treated like glass just because he'd been hit by some fat fuck with a shit right hook. “It's fucking fine. It's not like I haven't been punched before, Gallagher.” He uses his sleeve to wipe against the blood. 

 

Ian can't help but reflect guilt in his face, biting his lip. Mickey hates the way Ian can change from a moment into the next, being a totally different person in a matter of seconds. “It's not fine, you look like shit.”

 

“Jeez, thanks.”

 

“You know what I mean, let me take you home?” Ian says, his voice filled with concern that Mickey wasn't used to. He wants to make a joke, something that would make Ian laugh or whine like a bitch, something to get them off the topic of his bleeding eyebrow. But Ian looked genuinely scared, literally babying him all the way home. It's nice enough, Mickey guessed, and he didn't want to break the moment – because this could be the _moment_ that Ian started to boot up the I'm-falling-for-you-stage, and that's all Mickey needed to get to that pitch. If being punched meant getting there, he really didn't give a shit. 

 

He lets Ian drive him home, leaving his bike in a parking lot near-by. Once they get back to Mickey's flat, Ian damps a flannel wrapped around ice against his forehead, placing a firm hand into Mickey's damp hair. “I'm sorry, Mick.” Ian whispers, gently removing the flannel to check the cut out.

 

Mickey doesn't say anything, he just circles his hand around Ian's wrist hoping that the redhead just thought he was holding it in pain, other than the real reason being he actually felt  _okay,_ and Ian's soft hands against his skin actually felt  _nice._

 

Ian leaves a couple of minutes later, turning all the lights off, leaving a couple of flannels aganist the side of the sink, and dropping some water in a glass by the side of Mickey's bed. “Night,  _Mickey-wickey_ ” He giggles, as he closes the door. 

 

Mickey actually feels like his plan is going to work.

 

***

“You did _what?”_ Fiona yells in the office, standing before Ian. “You got him beaten up?” 

 

Ian takes an excessively big bite from his burger, shrugging guiltlessly. He did feel bad about the whole situation, and was trying to regain himself with the help of grease and carbs. “I wouldn't say  _beaten_ up actually. Just punched a little.” 

 

Svetlana wheels around from her cubical, unconvinced. “Punched a  _little,_ even I know you can't get floored without being beaten.” She has a box of noodles in her hands, slurping against the stringed, greasy fast food.

 

“ _Okay,_ but he was like a fucking animal. He threw the first punch.” He tries to act defensive, talking with his mouth full, cheeks like a gerbil. “It was kind of cute, actually?” He asked it like it was question, unsure about the thought of Mickey being cute. He giggles to himself, imagining the thugs reaction to his words. 

 

“Cute?” Fiona chimes in, questioningly, her eyebrow arching slightly.

 

Ian shrugs, taking another bite from his burger. “Yeah. Cute. He's a good looking guy, you  _even_ said that, so fuck off.” 

 

Both of them give him matching looks, like they were judging him or maybe a little concerned about his concentration of his actual  _job._ Ignoring them, Ian chooses it as a time to eat more of his food, filling his mouth more this time. Obviously, this was the time Lip would suddenly appear out of nowhere, making everyone jump out of their conversation. 

 

“Ian, I just read your notes on your article. Totally fucked up, but I like them. When you next seeing this guy?”

 

Ian chews frantically, trying to clear his mouth, before he speaks again. It failed. Lip's tapping his foot, waiting for him to answer as Fiona's eyes nearly pop out of her head. Ian stops trying, and answers rudely. “Tonight.” his mouth still full.

 

Lip gives him a crazed look, “Right, okay. What are you doing, we need a little dynamic?”

 

The food lingers in Ian's mouth, sticking to the roof of his gums, he swallows a few more times. “Dinner, I think.” His words come out all funny, flunked with burger.

 

“Fucking fancy. Just, um-” Lip waves a hand infront of Ian's face, his own turning into a disgusted scowl. “Maybe eat a little less, and stop talking with your mouth fucking full. We need you to keep this guy for ten days, and _that_ isn't fucking pretty.” Then he strolls off, like every time in Ian's life – but he was used to that, they all were. 

 

Svetlana bursts into laughter, nearly spewing her own food across the top of Ian's desk. Fiona is choking in chuckles as Ian's face starts burning up. “Stop fucking laughing,  _Jesus.”_

 

“Best thing I've seen all week.” Svetlana says around her fork, purposely slurping against the slickness of the noodles she shoves into her mouth.

 

Ian peels a piece of lettuce out of his burger, flinging it in her direction. Unluckily, it lands in her fern, but he leaves it. He could clean that shit up  _after_ he was finished with this dumb article. “I swear to fucking god.” 

 

“Dinner?” Fiona drags her tone out, leaning against the side of his desk, she nabs a stray noodle from Svetlana's pot and dodges the slap that heads her way.

 

Ian finally finishes his mouthful of food. “At his place. He's cooking.”

 

They both snort, Svetlana wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “He still wants to date you after you get him knocked out,  _and_ cooking. You should get married.” 

 

Frowning, Ian chews animatedly in his new bite. Unfortunately, he had been thinking the same thing. There was still no reason why Mickey would stick around,  _especially_ after the full-blown display of affection at the cinema,  _but_ he still had a message waiting for him on his mobile asking him to go around for dinner. As soon as he read it, he had to push down the internal guilt that he was leading Mickey on just to get some magazine entertainment, and a pay rise, out of it. 

 

“Fuck off. It doesn't make sense, I really need to step up my game.”

 

Fiona scrunches up her face, her inherited “chin” motion in play. “He's a south-side thug, it can't be  _that_ hard to get rid of him.” It was true, they all knew Mickey Milkovich – well, not personally, but they knew his family, they knew his reputation. 

 

Ian shakes his head, not believing it himself. “You have no idea how fucking hard it is.”

 

That's when Svetlana suddenly perks up, slamming her box of noodles down. The wheels on her chair squeak and she moves closer to the two, rubbing her hands together with that pure Russian mischief that smelt trouble. “You'll be at his place, yes?”

 

“Yeah...” Ian tilts his head, wondering what she had planning up in her mind.

 

“Good.” Svetlana jolts up, grabbing the fern from its perch and plunks it into Ian's lap. “This is what you do.”

***

Ian exits the lift and heads towards Mickey's apartment, jumping with nerves and excitement as Svetlana's words leak around in his head.  _When I was with man, he filled my house with his shit. Fucking pissed me off I nearly chopped off his balls and make him eat it. Do that._ The fern was poking out, the leaf strands swaying as he rushed over to the door. He shoves inside, unlike knocking which obviously was the more polite thing to do, but Ian was planning on invading Mickey's living space and he had to do it right. 

 

“Mickey?” Ian calls, hearing clinking and a couple of “fucks” coming from the kitchen.

 

“ _Gallagher?”_ Mickey checks his watch, frowning. “You're fucking early.” 

 

Ian ducks behind Mickey, quickly planting his box in the living room out of sight, before rushing back to the kitchen to replay his whole  _I'm so fucking annoying, kick me out_ gag. “Hm? Smells amazing, what is it?” He leans against the counter, taking in the sight of Mickey in a grey shirt and some baggy sweats, forehead gleaming with sweat. Ian feels a coil in his stomach, but he ignores it. 

 

Then he notices the beer perched on the side. That should stop the weird feeling in his chest.

 

“Yeah, just help your-fucking-self.” Mickey stabs, cutting into the meat to check it was cooked, before placing it back in for a couple more minutes. Ian grins around the brim of his bottle, unable to resist he tilts his head around Mickey's arm and gives him a gentle peck against his cheek.

 

If he was planning on making this guys life a living hell, he might aswell get something out of it. Even if it was just to touch that smooth skin of Mickey's cheek. He spins around smugly as Mickey blinks in shock then flips him off.

 

“Where's your toilet?” Ian asks, trying to be polite when really he was planning to wreck the cosy home Mickey was living in, filling it with himself.

 

“Down the hall to the left.” Mickey replies, still moving swiftly around the kitchen trying to grab plates.

 

Ian sets his beer down, he couldn't drink anymore when he had a job to do. He starts with the bathroom, because he  _really_ did need a piss and because he had all the possible essentials to show he was a part of this place now. Giggling, he places a toothbrush next to Mickey's, fraying the bristles a little to make it look like it had been used. Next the medicine cabinet, he doesn't bother filling it with his pills because one: Mickey didn't know. Two: he really fucking needed them, and when Mickey finally kicks him out he wasn't prepared to rush all the way back to get them. Instead, it fills it with spot-cream, floss, aftershave – that stank and they had stolen it from Lip's set of products (so sue him) – some foot cream, one of Svetlana's top suggestions. 

 

Apparently, the last guy she had been with, the  _creep,_ always had that stuff in their bathroom and it was the worst. Fiona had agreed too, telling him  _You've got to have something gross in there, its fucking logic._

 

So, he did. Now the cabinet was full, he moved to the bedroom, trying not to eye up the bed that he could fuck Mickey in. But, oh, didn't the mattress look comfortable, didn't it look able to hold his and Mickey's weight as he fucked him into- no.  _Keep with the fucking game, here._ He piles a stack of conversation-for-dummies books, along with kid books too, against the bed-side table – ones in which Fiona had found back at the Gallagher house that she didn't apparently want. 

He tucks a dirty shirt underneath one of the pillows, hoping that it was Mickey's. At the other side of the bed – which from the scrunched up sheets, and dented pillow, he guessed was Mickey's favorite side – he placed a picture of himself, hearts all over the picture, (special credit to Jim from I.T who quickly batched that up). He grabs the fern off the bed and walks back into the living area, box still in his hands.

 

Ian's glad he's going by Svetlana's words,  _Look like a complete fucking loon, orange boy, it won't be hard for you._ And, apparently it wasn't. Ian does feel like a complete loon when he places down the fern, just as Mickey's entering the room, two plates in his hands, dishing them up onto the table. 

 

“What the fuck is that?” He calls over from the table, eyes glazing over room; from the _Men's Wear_ magazines sprawled across the coffee table, to the stack of old CDs and DVDs by the television, doing a double take when he sees a fucking teddy bear sat against the cushions of the couch. Ian can't help burn grin inside when Mickey's eyebrows shoot up. “You fucking moving in or something, Gallagher?” 

 

Ian plays it off, relaxed. “Why, do you want me too?” He widens his eyes, mouth a gape at the suggestion. As much as he felt sorry for the guy, this was pretty fucking funny. “I just brought over some stuff, this place  _really_ needs a little more-” 

 

“You?” Mickey suggests, arms folded. He didn't look impressed and that just made Ian even more happy.

 

God, he felt crazy. “ _Yeah,_ oh you know me so well, Mick.” He holds his hands against his heart, knowing how cheesy and lame he must look. He moves closer to Mickey, the fern tight in his grip. “But that's not the best part.” He crushes the fern between their chests, trying to look as solemn as possible. 

 

“What the fuck-”

 

Ian places a finger against Mickey's lips, looking through his lashes. “This fern represents out relationship, Mick. It's so small now and fucking fragile-”  _A little like me,_ Ian thinks, but shakes it off. “-because it hasn't gotten much love or care or attention. We have to fucking nurture this, like a  _baby,_ so it can really flourish.” 

 

Mickey looks at him like he's going batshit crazy, his eyes widening in both shock and horror. Ian simultaneously wants to laugh in triumph and pack everything away so he can pretend it never happened and  _finally_ fuck Mickey, but he stands his ground. Mickey bites his lip, and Ian can tell he's trying not to go mad and throw Ian out, maybe even smash up the plant. Really, he wanted Mickey too, but for some reason the guy just didn't budge. Instead, Mickey gives in and takes the hideous plant. Ian nods for him to  _nurture_ it.

 

“Go on.” He encourages.

 

Mickey curses under his breath, eyes rimming with what looked like annoyance and a little anger. With Ian's eyes boring into him, he slowly pets the leaves of the plant, looking like a total idiot and feeling like one too. “A fucking fern?” Mickey scoffs, shaking his head with a laugh. “You could of chosen one more pretty, fucking hell.” He places it in the middle of the table, nodding towards Ian to show he actually was taking care of it.

 

Suddenly, Ian feels defeated again. Mickey was just being too  _nice,_ he should be chucking the plant in the trash, he should be raging about his house was suddenly invaded by a crazy redhead that wanted him to comfort a fucking plant. But no. What was with this guy? 

 

Ian retreats from his thoughts and turns to the table, there's a couple of beers next to the plates, candles lit against the tables surface. On the plates laid the best looking food he had seen in  _years,_ and as much as he wanted to eat it, he had a better idea. 

 

“You want me to cut it for you, you big baby?” Mickey remarks, shaking himself off for a reason Ian still didn't get yet. Why did he keep shaking his words off like he was being told off for being all tough and snarly? Ian grabs onto Mickey's extended arm that shadowed their food, he holds a hand against his face, clenching his eyes shut.

 

“Oh, its beautiful.” He pretends to tear up, wafting air towards his face dramatically.

 

Mickey grins in triumph, and Ian feels suddenly guilty for what he was about to do, because the food looked so fucking good. “Oh, Mick.” He pats Mickey's cheek, and the brunettes eyes fill with confusion. “I'm a vegetarian.”

 

“What?” Mickey's voice comes out strong, something Ian hadn't heard yet but he was glad he did.

 

Ian sniffs loudly, wiping under his dry eyes. Grabbing his fork, he sways his head, “ _Mary had a little lamb, little lamb,little lamb...-”_

 

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Mickey grunts, rubbing a hand across his face.

 

***

Mickey angrily slams a pile of containers onto Mandy's desk the next morning, all of them filled with the roast he had made the night before. Mandy pulls the lid off one of them, grimacing at the sudden outburst of her brother. Turning on her chair, she nudges the plastic lid across the desk. “Er, what's this?”

 

“Lunch.” Mickey grumbles, dropping himself into his desk-chair with a huff. He hears Mandy sigh with approval, the smell of roast lamb wafting through the small office. God, Mickey wanted to open the fucking windows.

 

“Did you guys fuck and not eat?” Mandy asks, stabbing the meat from inside of the container and shoving it into her mouth. “Jeez, you didn't have to give me the fucking leftovers.”

 

Mickey pinches the bridge of his nose, wanting to scream in the middle of the office because he hadn't been able to do that in the past couple of days. Frankly, he was sick of acting like some lovey-dovey prick that can take shit and just live with it, he wanted to rip all the shit up Ian had put around his house and chuck it out of the window. Don't even get him started on the toothbrush in the fucking bathroom. “He's a fucking vegetarian.” 

 

Mandy chokes on the meat, “What?”

 

“You heard me.” Mickey yells over, hands hitting against the arm rest tiredly. “I'm fucking sick of this, he's loaded all his junk into my house. Fucking creams, books, there's even a fucking _picture-”_

 

“A dick picture?” Mandy looks up hopeful, resting her foot against the top of her desk, hands firmly holding to the container.

 

Pulling a face, Mickey flips her off. “No not a fucking dick picture. I'd rather have that then some shitty CD's, a fucking  _plant,_ I can't do this Mandy. It's literally like I'm with two different people, he can be so great and then fucking-” 

 

“Not great?”

 

Mickey sighs, rubbing his eyes. It had taken him a good three hours to get Ian to finally go home, and it was starting to catch up with him. “That's not the end of it. We nearly fucked-” Mandy's eyes shoot up with excitement. “Don't get too fucking excited, nothing happened, because he was all fucking weird and when he went down-”

 

Mandy cuts in, desperately. “Do I really want to here about my brother getting sucked off, like  _really?”_

 

“Yes, you fucking do. He asked me if “the little guy” could “come out to play”. Then he did this fucking weird baby talk and it was horrible and just really fucking _weird,_ and in the end this _little guy_ which is quite big, may I add, didn't want to come out and fucking play.” He finally breaths and rests his head in his hands, hearing a cough and a laughing splutter from across the room. “It's not fucking funny.”

 

“It kind of is, though. I like this guy.” Mandy tries to stop herself laughing, but a piece of meat flies out of her mouth when she finds it merely impossible to hold in and control herself.

 

Flipping her off, Mickey leans back into his chair, the heels of his hands push into his eyes as he tries to forget the horrifying memory of Ian trying to play fucking sandbox with his dick. That's when he hears the door swing open, that someone coos.

 

Not just someone; Ian fucking Gallagher.

 

Mickey bolts upright, nearly falling back out of his chair. Mandy drops her fork, whispering a _damn_ under her breath as she takes in the breath taking features of her brothers fake-lover in.

 

“Mickey-wickey.” Ian chuckles, standing in a hideous light pink jumper – that screamed gay and made Mickey want to puke onto his desk, it was that bright – he was batting his eyelashes, a bag strung over his shoulder that seemed to be moving.

 

Mandy snorts as Mickey tries to readjust himself from his rant. “Oh, shit. Ian, yeah.” Ian hadn't mentioned coming to work, and it was even more stalkerish now he was actually standing there in a fucking pink jumper. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

 

“I wanted it to be a surprise.” Ian shrugs, walking over to kiss at Mickey's cheek. Which Mickey fucking hated, by the way, like really hated. It was so domestic and stupid, and he hated how nice and soft Ian's lips felt against his cheek.

 

That's when Mandy coughs into the back of her hand, not wanting to take the awkward interaction any longer – she needed to be a part of this, it was fucking _hilarious,_ Mickey sure did know how to pick his guys. Hot or not, this guy was a loon. Mickey grips hard against the corner of Mandy's desk. “Shit. Mandy this is Ian, Ian, Mandy.”

 

“Your sister, right?” Ian asks, earning a weak nod from Mickey. “Nice to meet you, Mickey has told me _all_ about you.”

 

Rolling her eyes, Mandy knows that it wouldn't be good things. Mickey could be an asshole sometimes, and so could she. “Well, from what I hear he's really fucking fond of you.”

 

Mickey glares, shaking his head harshly in a motion of your-fucking-dead-later. Ian nods, smiling genuinely towards the brunette pair, his eyes glistening against the sun that beamed through the blinds. “I brought you something.” Ian pulls at the strap on his shoulder, turning the bag he was holding around to his waist.

 

“Fucking hell.” Mickey gasps in terror, biting at his bottom lip to shut himself up. How long did he have to put up with this shit? Why did he chose a complete idiot to make fall in love with him.

 

It's a dog, a really fucking small dog, it was wearing a jumper matching to Ian's, its scruffy fur poking out the holes of the paws. “What the fuck is that?” Mickey asks, trying not to just bolt from the room and never come back.

 

“A dog?” Ian bluntly remarks, pulling a face as he scratched behind the dogs ears.“I named him Ace.”

 

Ace yelps at that, and finally Mickey realises that the thing is real. There is a dog on his fucking desk and its _real._ This was getting out of order. Weakly, and particularly annoyed, he pretends a fake smile whilst ignoring his sister sniggering behind them.

 

When he doesn't speak, Ian is rambling again. “I brought _you_ something else.” Then the redhead reaches into his duffel and pulls out a jumper, matching to his own, a grin plastered over his face, pushing it into Mickey's chest. No fucking way. It's fucking hideous and Mickey literally wants to cry.

 

“No fucking way.” He accidentally blurts, hurt smashes across Ian's face like a cloud of smoke. He has no idea what to do with the dog, but he'd deal with that later. Mickey knew he would burn the jumper as soon as Ian leaves. Hopefully.

 

“Put it on.” Ian pleads, wiggling his eyebrows to tempt him.

 

Mickey looks towards Mandy for assistance, hoping that once in her life she would actually help him get out of a fucked up situation. But obviously, she was fucking loving the show and nods towards the jumper, smirking. “Go on, _Mickey._ Put it on.”

 

He knows he has to do this. He knows that if he doesn't than that pitch won't be his at the end of the week, and he knows that if he _does_ do this Mandy would never let it go. “Fucking fine.” He grumbles, harshly. He pulls the jumper over his head, roughly shoving his head through the whole to face Ian all over again. Shifting around in the itching fabric, he stands infront of Ian trying to form a smile that make look a little like happiness.

 

“Oh, Mick.” Ian gasps. And Mickey knows now that Ian's old self was long a buried, because there was no going back from pink jumpers. The redhead places a hand against his shoulder, eyes glazing. “We're a little family, now. You, me, and Ace. It's fucking beautiful.” He leans up to kiss Mickey's cheek, the brunette tensing against the touch, Mickey looks over Ian's shoulder terrified. Mandy coughs behind her fist again, until they all hear a streaming sound coming from the desk.

 

“No. No. No. Fuck!” Mickey yells, as he and Mandy grab for the papers the dog had been pissing on, a puddle forming just at the edge of the re-types. Ian just laughs, shrugging it off like Mickey's life's work didn't just nearly fall apart, he picks Ace up into his arms and kissing at the top of his head. “He's not trained yet, are you little guy?”

 

“Well get him fucking trained then.” Mickey barks back, flinching as the thing tries to go for him. _Only a couple more days, that's it. Then this shit can be over._

 

Just as Ian puts words to a shocked, hurt face, Mandy pushes through with her hands in the air. “Mickey, we really need to get that piece done or Higgins will kick our ass. The meeting is in like, shit – thirty fucking minutes.” The brunette rushes to her desk, typing frantically into her laptop.

 

“I'll get going, let you two _work.”_ The redhead winks, pushing Ace towards Mickey's face.

 

Mickey can feel his nose twitch, he doesn't want to be nose-to-nose with a fucking dog, but he felt bad for the little guy. It's owners were in a fake relationship, which was one-sided, and the other one might be a little crazy. So he just pats him a couple of times before moving back to his desk and slump himself down into his sit. “Now fuck off you little creep.”

 

“Don't forget to frost yourselves.” Ian giggles, waving them off and he led out of the door – Ace in his arms- and out the way he came. Mickey has never been so glad to see the back of somebody, Ian was literally going out of his mind and it was scaring him a little bit.

 

The phrase sticks with Mickey, he repeats it louder towards Mandy who sits with her chin between her forefinger and thumb. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

 

“Fuck knows, but it works. Draw it up.”

 

His luck works out and Higgins actually liked the strange phrase, using it as his theme and slogan for his jewellery campaign – which will be advertised on the night of the pitch.

 

Ian was more useful that Mickey thought.

 

***

As two more days go by Ian decides to leap up in the ladder of craziness. Or, actually, not have a ladder at all.

 

“Is that what I think it is?” Fiona tilts her head towards Ian's computer screen, both horrified and amused and the fact he was using photoshop to create his and Mickey's family portrait.

 

Ian nods proudly, mousing clicking away as he placed yet another face into a babies body. “Yup, that is mine and Mickey's family picture. It's pretty fucking cute, if you ask me.”

 

There's a urgent rattle of wheels, a grunt of struggle and then finally Svetlana enters into the small space of Ian's cubical, her eyes widening at the hideous sight of Ian's screen. “What did you just say?”

 

They all crowd around the small screen, peering over Ian's shoulder. He's got four tabs open, all filled with photographs of either him or Mickey. Mandy had happily sent him some images of Mickey as a baby, letting him use them for his little art project. Ian had watched a quick tutorial video on how to composite faces together and use both his face and Mickey's to create the ugliest children he had ever seen. It only makes him cackle.

 

Pointing to the screen, he speaks slowly. “Family.” He tries not to burst into laughter, and has to take his hand off the mouse so he doesn't ruin Mickey's Jr. “Picture.”

 

“You are so horrible.” Fiona voice is hushed in a glimpse of glee, smacking Ian on the back as she tries to suppress a snort.

 

Svetlana shakes her head, mumbling in Russian, before she smacks the back of his head with a grin. “Jesus fucking Christ, Orange boy, how hasn't he beat your ass yet?”

 

Ian doesn't really know the answer to that question.

 

***

In the end, he makes a whole album full of photographs in the space of a couple of hours. Even fake birth announcements, fake birthday parties, fake school portraits; the lot. Then he finds the ugliest, most tackiest photo-album he could find and stuck them all in it. It's Mickey's face that makes it all worth it, once Ian flipped it open against his lap whilst they watched the game.

 

“What the fuck is that?” Mickey blurts, eyeing the ugly piece of art in Ian's proud, but smug hands.

 

“Our family album.” Ian sticks his chin out, finger pointing the bubble writing at the top of the page which read: Mickey and Ian's little family. Ian feels even more proud from Mickey's face drops from amusement into terror. Oh, this was fun.

 

Slamming the book shut, Mickey sighs bringing his beer rapidly to his lips. “We don't have a fucking family.”

 

Ian droops the book to the side of the sofa, putting his head in his hands sadly. He can feel Mickey watching him and it gives him more motivation to act it further, he whimpers falsely as the happiness beats in his chest. He did it. He finally tipped Mickey off the edge and he go out and type up his article. Even though he had become attached to Mickey's presence, a little fond of it too, he couldn't wait to rid of his annoying, evil twin that he had created.

 

Except, his fake crying is suddenly stopped when Mickey frustratedly chucks the book back into Ian's lap. “Show me the god-damn pictures, Gallagher, just stop fucking crying like a girl.”

 

When Ian looks at him, Mickey looks scared but genuine, like he actually wants to see the fake kids Ian had made that day. It confuses him, it really does, why would any guy want to stay with him whilst he's making some fake fucking family, invading his house, ruining his meals and just being a complete craze-ball? It didn't make sense.

 

He flips the album open and the first thing Mickey does is burst into laughter.

 

“Oh God, our kids are fucking ugly.”

 

*

“No fucking way.” Svetlana voice rumbles over the line as Ian hides in the bathroom, trying to keep his voice down. “He really looked at them ugly kids?”

 

“Every single page, I just don't fucking get it.” Ian sighs, closing the lid of the toilet and sitting on top of it. “It's like he wants me to do more shit, like he's waiting for me to actually be normal and _then_ kick me out.”

 

Svetlana snickers over the line, trying to control herself. Ian was glad someone found it funny. His mind was blank, he literally couldn't think of anything else to do. Mickey was like a stone wall, he couldn't fucking budge and it was driving him crazy. “You're not fucking helping.”

 

“Yes, I am. You know it.” Svetlana threatens softly, as softly as any Russian would try, until he voice switched almost completely, nearly shocking Ian off the toilet seat. “Oh shit, the tickets!”

 

“What tickets?”

 

Ian could literally feel Svetlana rolling her eyes through the phone, her huff of air even louder than the music Mickey had playing from the living area. “You dumbass. The ones we got an email from this morning, or you too fucking loved up in grumpy's ass to know?”

 

“I'm not up his ass.” Ian defends himself, even though being in Mickey's ass did sound appealing. “ _Oh,_ those tickets.” He remembered now, his face lit up with the idea. This would work.

 

Once Svetlana had sent him the email, letting him know that tickets were still selling Ian couldn't resist. He dangles the idea infront of Mickey, making it sound like front-row seats to the next baseball game, persuading Mickey not to go into work and join him.

 

As planned, Ian beams, sending Mickey a silent goodbye knowing that he wouldn't make it through the nights plans.

 

Celine Dion had made her appearance down-town, doing a post-farewell tour within a couple of states in the country, and when Mickey sees the sign above the theatre he tries to bolt, until Ian desperately grabs onto his arm and is dragging him in the other direction. Ian buys the both of them matching t-shirts, and even though Mickey some-how _lost_ it Ian still felt like the brunette was enjoying himself, even just a little bit. Ian sings along with _all_ the songs, due to his huge knowledge of the lyrics from when Fiona would sing it all night long. Mickey does flinch and tense a couple of times, especially when Ian tries to lean into his side during _my heart will go on,_ trying to sway them back and forth.

 

Finally, when the concert was over, Ian was expecting Mickey to just leave. To leave and never speak to him again because he made him go to a fucking Celine Dion concert. But when Ian excitedly turns around, looking down towards Mickey, the older boys eyes are telling him something, deep with a mixture of fear but content. Ian's not sure how to place it, before he does Mickey picks out some confetti from Ian's hair, and chucks it to the ground. “See you later, yeah?” He says, before they both head to their own cars.

 

And Ian's not sure what the fuck to do any more.

 

***

Ian storms into his workplace, slamming his back-pack and laptop onto the desk. Fiona and Svetlana exchange glances, both wheeling around to see what was up with Ian at this god awful hour. Before either of them could ask, Ian's already talking. “This is getting fucking serious, like really fucking serious.” He grabs his coffee, downing half of his contents to boost him up a little. “I brought him to a god-damn Celine Dion concert and he still wants to fucking see me, I mean, what the _fuck.”_

 

It still baffled him how Mickey was able to stick for this long.

 

Fiona tips her head up to the ceiling, swivelling on her chair. “And you're being super fucking clingy?”

 

What kind of question was that? Of course he was being clingy. “Yes. Clingy, fucking needy and whiny; for fucks shakes I even cried and sang _Mary had a little lamb_ for like three hours when he made me fucking dinner.” He had tried everything, literally anything to get him out of it, but Mickey was a hard egg to crack, he wouldn't budge.

 

“You spoke exes?” Svetlana asks, arching her brow. “Talk about man who like ice in his-”

 

“Okay, lets not talk about that.” Ian shushes her before he hears that story all over again, he had just gotten over the memory of a guy letting ice up his ass, he did not need reminding. “I need something worse than making up children and a fucking Celine Dion concert.” He was literally freaking out, because he still hadn't had time to actually write anything yet. It was just notes.

 

“Nothing is as _hideous_ as that.” Fiona reminisces, shaking it out of her own head.

 

Ian sighs heavily. “Well, we have to wait until tomorrow now, maybe I can stop freaking out by then.”

 

Svetlana leans forward on her chair, pushing back a strand of hair behind her ear. “Why tomorrow? You out to a fucking party or something? Get over to his house.” She demands, trying to push Ian's chair away from his desk to get him moving.

 

“Tonight's boys night.”

 

Fiona scowls, waving a hand towards him. “You're a fucking boy?”

 

Ian knows this, but Mickey has his own thing and as much as he wanted to he didn't want to interfer with that. It felt rude. “I can't, it's his thing and I don't want to-”

 

“Boy's night.” Svetlana repeats, cutting Ian off as she taps the bottom of her chin in thought.

 

Ian nods, trying to stop the two from forming any stupid ideas. “No, I really-”

 

“He doesn't get a boys' night. Not anymore.”

 

Then Ian gets it, this was the way. This was the final night that he would get Mickey to chuck him out and finally he'd be able to write his piece on him. It felt good to finally have ideas in his head, it was a little tiring trying to imagine how angry Mickey could get, even if he felt intrigued to see when he did. “Of course he doesn't.”

 

Fiona claps her hands together, “That should do it.”

 

Ian can only hope for so long.

 

***

Mickey had gotten his brothers – and Mandy - over for the usual boys night, he really needed it after hanging around Ian for so long. It all felt a little domestic all of a sudden, and Mickey was starting to miss the Ian he had met the first night. Iggy, Tony and Colin all knew about the bet and had even seen the accessories Ian had brought to Mickey's home.

 

As the host, Mickey lined up the joints against the table in the living room, turning the television on to watch the came. They all line up against the couch, beers in one hand, joints in the other, and they finally relish in the sound of silence, especially Mickey.

 

There's a raucous argument between Tony and Colin, about the invalid score as Iggy and Mickey lean back against the couch, a little tispy over the whole crate of beer. That's until the front door clicks, which Mickey only notices when the door fully slams shut against its hinges, Ian's voice echoing out through the rooms. Mickey sinks into his seat, really wondering whether or not just to jump out of the window.

 

He couldn't have one thing.

 

“Hello?!” Ian sings, as he wiggles his key – wait, where the fuck did he get a key from? - from out of the door. All of their heads turn to the happy sound, all confused but amused by Ian's struggle ot carry everything. His hands are filled with bags, as Ace rests at his feet on the lead. After all the fuss, Ian goes into the kitchen, in which Mickey immediately follows in order to get Ian to leave.

 

“Gallagher?” Mickey greets him with a half-hearted question, he watches as Ian dumps his bags, unclasping the lead from around Aces collar. The dog runs off free towards the other three Milkoviches, barking at the vast smoke lingering in the air, Mickey grabs him and leans against the wall. “When did you get a fucking key?”

 

“Oh, _yeah.”_ Ian says airily, waving his key in the air. “I had your super batch me one up, nice guy and all.” He plants the key in his back pocket, beginning to pull out beers and healthy foods out of the bags, grabbing plates to put them on.

 

Mickey pushes Ian out of the way, shaking his head as the dog crawled around his neck. “Woah, fucking woah, we don't eat this shit, what the fuck, Gallagher?” He's ready to bin the cucumber slices, the fucking peppers and the apples – he never eats that shit, only when he has to, and Ian was not going to make him eat it. No.

 

“You've got to eat healthy-” Ian sniffs up the air, his eyes glaring over Mickey's body. “You've been smoking a joint, haven't you, you do know what that does the walls? I'll have to paint them in the morning.” Ian frantically goes on, chopping up the apples at rapid speed. Mickey actually thinks Ian is on _speed_ at this rate.

 

“I can do whatever the fuck I want.” Mickey snaps, grabbing the crate of beer and moving back into the front room. Ian doesn't look sad when he leaves the room, he needed this, he needed Mickey snap and go crazy, and just chuck him the hell out. “I'll be in there in a minute!” He happily calls, hearing a couple of mismatched groans.

 

Once he steps into the space, all the heads turn to him. Mandy's too. “Oh, hey Ian!”

 

“Hey, Mandy.” He walks over sweetly, like some fucking house maid, and puts down the plate of apples in the middle of the table. When he sits down he makes sure he squishes himself between the arm rest and Mickey – making the brunette roll his eyes and scooting over a little bit. Ian's giggling, catching Mandy's gaze that just reads _you fucker_ and he wants to say something until his eyes catch something over Mickey's shoulder. “Mick, is that-”

 

The brunette turns and suddenly clicks on. “Shit.”

 

Ian stands up, eyes like lazer beams shooting into Mickey's eyes, a use grimace on his face. Barging past Mickey, and Mickey's chest rises in panic – his whole plan crashing down like a ton of bricks, and whole room know it too – he runs after Ian, watching as the redhead reaches into the middle of the table and retrieves the dying plant.

 

Shit.

 

“Our love fern,” Ian says, sounding victimised the pot pushed to his chest like an infant. Mickey hears a couple of snorts from behind him, he flips them off before Ian's eyes stare towards the stalk of the bent over plant, the leaves falling off every time it moved. “It's dying Mickey.”

 

Ian's lip quivers, his hands shaking against the pot, even when his eyes flash red. He moves towards Mickey shoving at his chest with his freehand. “You're letting out love fern die. Is that what you're going to do to our relationship? Let it fucking die?” Mickey can tell by the power in the kids voice, that's he's being serious. God, his plan is fucked. All for one stupid fucking plant.

 

“It ain't fucking dead, Gallagher. It's just, er, sleeping.” Mickey tries to resolve the situation, but he was never fucking good at this shit. He was never good at trying to talk to people. He hated people. “It's just a fucking plant, get over it. Jesus.”

 

Then Ian's eyes turn to slits, holding his plant protectively. “And I'm just some fucking man, then. You fucking promised me, asshole.” Ian storms off into the kitchen, grabbing the nearest beer and downing its contents. After that shambles Mickey _had_ to get rid of him, it was only logistics. He hears the rest of them giggling and talking in the living room, and despite is alter ego he actually felt secluded from shit like that. It wasn't a nice feeling to go back to.

 

On the cue, he goes back in, a tray full of fruit that he new wouldn't be eaten. But, Iggy was sure tucking into cucumber, so that was something. When Ian reaches the door, he hears their voices, something inside of him pushes him back, making him listen.

 

“He on something?” He thinks its Colin, or Tony, he's not too sure.

 

He waits for Mickey's answer, feeling like this was the most important, in a strange way he did want to know what Mickey thought out him. Maybe, just one last wish, he guessed. “I fucking hope so.” Mickey snaps back, laughing a little too loudly, Ian steps in then, all of them were laughing around Mickey's gesture of Ian being crazy.

 

Ian knew this was the point. The moment this all be would over.

 

Swiftly, he chucks the plate in the air, the shard smashing against the wooden floor. Everyone jumps in their seats and turn abruptly around to see Ian standing in the doorway, fuming. Mickey doesn't take any effort to move, and Ian's glad he's finally given up. “You saying I'm fucking mental?” He yells, smacking his hand against his head. Yeah, maybe he was over-reacting, but the words struck him like they did the same day Frank laid into him and told him how much he was like his mother, how he would slit his own wrists at thanksgiving, just had see had. That's where his anger came from, sometimes he couldn't control it.

 

“What the fuck, Ian?” Mickey screams, jumping up and around the couch to face him. “Are you fucking _crazy?”_

 

Laughing at the utter joke of it, Ian shrugs. “I don't know, why don't you fucking tell me, you know, because you know so much.” He pushes himself closer to Mickey's face, nose flaring. (God, he was such a good actor when it mixed with his real feelings. This would do it.)

 

“Fuck you.” Mickey shoves him back. “What the hell happened to the fun, smart-ass, fucking asshole Ian that I knew?Huh.” Ian can't help but stay quiet while Mickey finally bursts for the first time since the cinema date. “What happened to the serious journalist, with the nerdy fucking questions, where's he now, huh? Was that all an act?”

 

_No, this is. This is the fucking act and I need to leave now._

 

The older boy squares up to him, their chests nearly colliding. The others are still watching, all in silence and Ian swears someone had turned the volume down just to listen to them. “You're up and you're down, you are a one man fucking circus.”

 

That's when it hits home, Ian's stomach drops. Because that's exactly what he's like.

 

“Maybe that's exactly what I'm like, but you'd never fucking ask.” Ian accidentally lets himself break free, his croaky voice telling it all. Wiping his eyes, he grabs onto the scattered fern that had fallen off the kitchen counter in the commotion. Avoiding any eye contact, he brushes past Mickey who is still in pause mode, speechless. “Nothing to say, I see. Well, I'm fucking out of here, _and_ I'm taking the fern with me.”

 

As much as it hurt he couldn't get distracted.

 

Mickey doesn't say anything, and Ian hopes he never will because he really needs to write this article no matter how shit he felt. Mickey turns to Mandy, who's shrugging, completely flumped about what just happened. Ian tuts, opening the door wildly and aggressively slamming it shut.

 

Even though this meant the pitch was fucking off, and that he had wasted his time, Mickey felt relief against the weight on his shoulders. “Well,that's fucking that.” Ace runs towards the recently slammed door, pawing at the wooden panel.

 

Mandy rushes up, grabbing her brother by the arm and guiding him down the hall. “What the fuck are you doing, we are not losing this pitch because you have some shitty black thumb.” She whips a hand around his head, her voice dominated by warning. “You only have a few days left, Mick. Get him the fuck back, _now.”_

 

Scoffing, Mickey rubs a hand against his face. He was sick of chasing around after Ian, he really was. That guy was more crazy than he had intended, and that's the real reason why he never get close to someone – it fucked you up, it ruins your house, and they make creepy fucking photos of you and your future kids. “Nah, you really expect me to get him back after all that?”

 

“Couples' counselling.” Iggy steps in, popping out randomly.

 

Mickey jumps, nearly whacking his head against the wall in shock. “Don't fucking sneak up like that, man. What the fuck, _couple counselling?”_ He sounds unsure. He didn't want this in the first place, never-mind talking about it. They had fully established that Mickey didn't talk about things.

 

Nodding, Iggy confirms his suggestion with confidence. “Yeah, lil' brother. Whenever me and the wife are on the verge of break-up, I always bring it up. Works like a fucking charm.”

 

Mandy nudges at his shoulder, she knows he won't do it, she can tell. But this pitch was everything to them, it was their life, they had worked so hard just to get to their position. “Come on, Mick. It's worth a try.” The two of them nod, faces pleading that Mickey should agree.

 

“Fuck.” Mickey swipes a hand over his eyes, steeling himself. He wants that pitch, he _needed_ that pitch, and if that meant sitting through couples' fucking counselling to get it- “Fucking, fine.” he says, rolling back his shoulders. “The things I have to fucking do.”

 

He dashes out of the door, taking the stairs to catch up with Ian who was probably all the way down the road by now. Ace is chasing after him, yelping each time he jumped a few steps. Mickey couldn't help but jump from floor to floor, begging himself not to move any higher. When he finally reaches outside, he saws Ian half-way down the street, fern tight in his hold. “Ian!” Mickey calls, jogging over to where Ian was walking.

 

“Gallagher, fuck, _Ian._ I'm sorry I let that plant die, it was just so fucking boring and I just didn't have time for it.” Mickey wasn't getting on his knees, no fucking way, but if he had to plead he would plead. “I don't fucking apologize, so you could at-least answer.”

 

Ian's voice is faint, massively in shock. “What?”

 

Mickey uses his knees as a hold to catch his breath, gasping towards the ground as his chest still heaves. “Listen, fuckhead, let me make things right.” He puts his best acting face on, trying to persuade Ian into believing he actually wanted to make this work.

 

“What the hell are you doing, Mickey?” Ian sounds almost pitiful, before he rearranges his grip on the fern, shoving it a little higher against his chest. Ian wanted this to end now, this was his story, this had to be it.

 

Mickey claps his hands together, his tattoos on full display and at one point he had even thought of using them just to get Ian out of whiny-bitch mode. Ian waits for him to answer, as if his mind had already left down the street just minutes ago. Pleading, but not being a bitch about it, Mickey pulls out the suggestion. “I think we need to get some...help.”

 

“Help? I don't need help.” Ian snaps back defensive, glaring towards Mickey.

 

“Not you, _us.”_ Mickey conquests, wanting to punch himself in the face for the stupid tone in his voice, the act that he was getting sick off, this wasn't him, he didn't do _nice._ “I think we should go to Couples' counselling.” _It will buy you four more days, Mick._ Mickey repeated Mandy's words in his mind, trying to pretend he was okay with all of this.

 

Ian racks the thought in his mind, it would work great in his article, even if it did buy a couple more days. Nodding, only slowly, he keeps his stern expression as he answers, “Couples' counselling, hm, I even know a therapist that might be able to help you.” He suggests.

 

Mickey's eyes widen, as he scowls. “Me? It's helping the both of us.”

 

Stepping closer, Ian pats Mickey's chest a little mockingly. “We all know _you're_ the one who needs this, Mick. You just snap sometimes. We can sort that.” Ian rolls off, sounding like some fucking pre-school teacher, he wants to puke at the sound of his own voice, but by the look on Mickey's face its evident his plan is working.

 

Mickey breathes heavily through his nose, irritated at the implication, but nods away. He expects Ian to follow him in, just like he did for the past couple of nights, but the redhead stays put in the street clutching to the dead plant, that Mickey didn't feel guilty about what-so-ever.

 

“I'll call you tomorrow.” Ian gives him a once over, Mickey did look kinda hot all flustered and annoyed, and it shocked the shit out of him how he kept running back. You didn't even have to look at Mickey to know that he wasn't the relationship type, and the fact that he was willing to go to fucking counselling was beyond him.

 

Just as Ian leaves, skipping a little down the street, Mickey grits his teeth. He thought this was going to be easier, that some guy would just fall for him and they could fuck the ten days away – but _no,_ he had to choose the fucking idiot, the crazy guy, the one with the fucking fern.

 

He needs more alcohol.

 

***

“You want me to do _what?_ ” Svetlana's eyebrows were raised so far they were almost blending in with her hairline. Ian puts on his best please-help-me-face. Puppy dog eyes, the fucking lot. But Svetlana is cold, refusing to be some shitty counsellor. “Fuck off, me no show pony.”

 

“I'll do it.” Fiona pipes up, whirling her head around the side of Ian's cubical.

 

“Really?”

 

Waggling her eyebrows, she clicks her fingers. “I'm going to charge, though.”

 

Ian bursts out in laughter, God – he felt a little sorry for Mickey at this point. “Oh, please do.”

 

Ian's not entirely sure how this would work out, or Fiona's ability to act and be as rude as she possibly can. Even with the Gallagher genes, some how she always ended up being the _good_ one, the one that didn't take no shit but didn't like dishing it too much either – only if you had to- When Ian sees the door opening, he can't help but bite the skin of his knuckles for laughing; Fiona was stood in some long linen top, like a soccer church mom, her hair slicked back into a tight bun as she wore the worlds biggest, black-rimmed, glasses.

 

“You must be Ian. And Mickey. Welcome.” She greets them, waving a hand towards the small room, her voice a little different and toneless. Ian swore he heard her trying to do a posh, British accent and strangely Mickey wasn't suspecting a thing yet.

 

Fiona's apartment has been moved around, all the soppy photographs and hanging frames disappeared and apparently linen was a great way to start when you were a counsellor, because it was fucking _everywhere._ Mickey's all twitchy, pulling at his shirt nervously – he really didn't want to be there, and that Ian laugh even more.

 

“Please. Take a seat.” Fiona points to the diagonal sofa that rested in the middle of the room. Mickey stands still, ready to run, but Ian urges him against the chair with a harsh pull to his wrist. “I can fucking sit down, Gallagher.” Mickey bites, pulling his arm away from the grip.

 

Ian shrugs, and winks towards Fiona who is pretending to look a little shocked. Coughing, she starts, looking down to her blank note-pad. “Before we begin, we unfortunately must discuss payment.”

 

Ian nods happily, nudging his leg against Mickey's. “Mickey, _payment.”_ Ian prompts, watching as Mickey's face turned from narrow to serial killer. Oh, the joys are ruining someone’s life for a magazine article.

 

“Thought you were fucking paying?” Mickey spits, pulling out his wallet anyway. If Ian was going to fall for him, he needed to at-least act civilised with him. “What's the damage?” He asks, couting through the notes in his wallets, trying not to feel Ian peer over and count it too.

 

Tapping her chin, Fiona thinks up the most unreasonable price to scam Mickey for. “It'll be $200 dollars an hour.”

 

Mickey chokes on his own spit, nearly slamming his fist onto the table. “Are you fucking kidding me, right now?” Ian places a hand against his knee, trying to calm him, but Mickey shoves it off, pulling out the wad of cash from his wallet and chucking it against the glass-table.

 

“ _Great.”_ Fiona eye-balls the money, licking her lips. “Now, what brings you here?”

 

Ian looks towards Mickey, pleading him to answer, because he'd love to hear what Mickey had to say about the whole situation. Mickey grunts into his hands, scratching the back of his neck. “I let a fucking plant die, and he thinks its the end of the world.”

 

“It's not just a plant it's a-”

 

“I don't give a shit, Gallagher, you fucked up my floor smashing those plates like a god-damn loon.”Mickey sounded pissed, more than pissed, he continued to cut Ian off because for the past couple of days he hadn't been able to speak, not at all.

 

Ian shuffles away from him, smacking his hands harshly against the top of his thighs. “You wanted to do this, so start fucking acting like it, you utter dick.” Dramatically,he turns away from Mickey, glaring outside of the window that overlooked outside. Fiona bites her lip to laugh, her hands tapping against the paper resting in her lap.

 

“You sound angry, Mickey.”

 

“That's because I _am,_ lady.” Mickey bursts, shooting harsh looks in Ian's direction. “I don't need this shit, I don't need a fucking plant to represent a relationship, who the fuck does that?”

 

Ian suddenly jolts up, putting on his best game face. “Oh, fuck _you.”_

 

Nodding, Fiona stands up resting a hand against his shoulder. “You sound very hostile, Ian, why don't you just sit down and take a breath.” Ian follows her orders, and sits as far away as Mickey as he could challenge. Mickey mutters something under his breath. “What was that, Mickey?” She asks.

 

“He does that a-fucking-lot. Acting weird all the time.” Mickey waves his hand over to Ian, trying to work out how the hell the redhead could act like this. It was fucking crazy, why did he have to deal with all of this...ah, yes. The pitch.

 

Ian abruptly turns to Mickey on the couch, “I'm sorry, I do _what_ a lot? I can't hear you when you mumble all the fucking time.” This was going as well as he planned it, this should tip Mickey off the edge and finally get rid of his ass.

 

“I said you're fucking hostile, are you deaf as well as fucking dumb?” Mickey snaps back, rubbing a rough hand over his face in frustration.

 

Ian builds up his acting skill again, raising his voice louder. “Oh _I'm_ hostile, look who's fucking talking.

 

“Shut the fuck up.”

 

Fiona decides to step in, coughing louder to grab their attention. “Let's calm down, please. This is meant to help you two, how long have you been together now?” She starts off with the easy questions, trying to get Mickey to speak because Ian had told him, in extreme detail, that Mickey really did hate talking about things.

 

“A long seven days.” Ian speaks fondly, clapping his hands together as if it was for a lifetime. It did really feel like a life-time when Mickey wouldn't let him go after all the stunts he had credulously pulled.

 

;oMickey scoffs beside him, “A fucking _week.”_

 

Cheering internally, Ian rabbits on with a pout. “See, you hear this? He's so fucking dismissive, he's _ashamed_ of me. Aren't you, Mick?” Ian looks towards Fiona, who was trying to surpress her laughter silently under a serene expression.

 

“Are you serious? What the fuck is this. I paid a lousy two hundred bucks to hear you whine like a bitch, and grill my ass. Oh fuck the fuck off.” That's when Ian hopes Mickey walks out of the door, that's when he wants Mickey to burst out into flames and just _leave._

 

“That's how much this means to you, God, you're such an asshole.”

 

Fiona pinches the bridge of her nose, not sure if she can recollect herself when Ian's acting was so fucking hilarious and on _point._ They had both made sure he had listened into couples arguing, getting the vast amount of ideas that he could pull Mickey on. “Would you guys just shut the hell up?” She yells between their confrontation. “You're like a married couple.”

 

Mickey snorts, arching his brow. “Don't give him any fucking crazy ideas, he's had enough of them.”

 

Ignoring the thugs comments, Fiona carries on in a professional manner. “Why don't we start off slow, lets use words this time?” Ian snorts, earning a glare from Mickey.

 

The redhead hums inappreciatively, rolling his eyes. “The thing about Mickey is, he can't use his words. He's emotionally constipated and can't say anything that doesn't involve fucks or any sort of curse. You won't get anything out of him.”

 

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

 

There's Ian's point. “See.”

 

“So, Mickey.” Fiona starts, pushing the glasses up to the ridge of her nose. She can hardly see, but she can even notice what a shambles this whole situation was. “ _Are_ you ashamed of Ian?” And Ian knows what Mickey's answer should be. Not that he'd blame Mickey for feeling that way, Ian had treated him awful enough to warrant a little shame.

 

All eyes are on the brunette, he shakes himself a little, before answers, calmer this time. “No, I'm not fucking ashamed of him.” Ian's taken back a little by that, Mickey _wasn't_ ashamed by him, not even a little bit? How in the hell.

 

“You're not?” Ian asks, act nearly failing as his senses all flow through.

 

“That's what I fucking said, wasn't it?” Mickey snarls, his leg bobbing against the heel of the chair, an instant signal that he didn't want to be there but was holding it together, just for Ian's sake. Well, he hoped it was for his sake.

 

It doesn't stop Ian staring over at him for a couple of seconds, confused out of his wits, before he starts to pout and his acting comes out to play all over again. “He doesn't want me to meet his family.” It's something else he's heard from his friends. Mentally, he's making a list in his head of other complaints he's heard, ready to fire them out there as soon as Mickey protests against something.

 

Mickey interrupts Fiona from interjecting her knowledge of couples, leaning at the edge of the chair. “You _have_ met them. You gave them a hell of show last night, or did you forget that too?”

 

“I want to meet your _mom.”_ Ian suggests, a rise in his chest sending him into panic. Everyone had heard about the Milkoviches mom; how she ran off and left them with their father, how he was sent to jail for killing a guy and the kids had to move away to live with her. Most importantly, he had heard that Mickey really _hated_ going back home, so this was his chance.

 

Fiona smiles sweetly, nodding towards Mickey to give an answer. Ian clenches his fists to his sides, awaiting an answer that could go both ways; a punch to the face, or Mickey just storming out and never seeing his face again. Somewhere deep down Ian didn't like that thought. The thing was, he nearly topples over in surprise when Mickey says, “Fine, you want to meet my fucking mom, you can fucking meet her. It ain't all you make it out to be, Gallagher.”

 

“Wait, what?” Ian asks, dazed. “You want me to actually meet your _mom?”_

 

If that wasn't a stupid question, he didn't know what was. “Don't start with all that bullshit now, you're going. You wanted to so lets fucking do it.” Mickey has that slick confidence that Ian happened to miss over the last days, he had worn Mickey down so much he was scared that he'd never see it again.

 

“That sounds magical.” Fiona says, her disguise nearly slipping, voice wobbling a little. She presses her lips together, and Ian's complementing taking back the hug and free booze he'd been thinking of giving her. A weekend with Mickey's family, what is he thinking? This was not going to go well, and he definitely couldn't run away now.

 

“Yeah, fucking _magical.”_ Mickey sighs, and Ian knows he's done for. He tries to grab for Mickey's hand, but its unmoving and unresponsive.

 

Ian slaps a hand against the older boys thigh, giving him a weak smile. “It's a start, right.” His simpering tone doesn't do its wonders, and Mickey results in giving him a half-hearted smile, between a nod and a grimace.

 

“See, this is good. This is a working progress.” Fiona buts in, noticing Ian's shifty behaviour and not wanting to settle into the silence of the room. “Now, lets talk about sex.”

 

Ian sees his sisters eyes light up, winking towards him, he was going to kill her tomorrow.

 

***

It takes Mickey a couple of hours to call back home. Ian and his stupid fucking mouth, and that idiot therapist that didn't help at all. Mickey's not sure what to do now, he's tried his best to make Ian fall for him and its like he's getting the tail end of it all. The redhead was just irritating, and wanting every little thing to be perfect, and Mickey was scared that by the time the pitch came he wouldn't be able to get rid of him.

 

As soon as he bucks up the courage, and finally tells his mom that Ian's coming over that weekend, she literally cries down the phone. “A _boyfriend?_ Mickey!”

 

“He's just a friend.” He tries to simmer, he doesn't want her to go thinking they were serious or anything. Once Ian was gone he wasn't prepared to comfort her in why and how it all happened. She'd kick his ass.

 

“You keep telling yourself that. Is he cute?” She asks, her voice hopeful but raw like it had always been.

 

Mickey scratches at his chin, more pissed off than he should be, he feels like a child again. “No, he's not fucking cute.” Even though, you could say that about Ian. “It's not a big deal.”

 

“Mickey. You coop yourself up in that fucking house and I never get to see you. I know this place reminds you of your prick of a father, but I'm all alone out here? Wouldn't hurt would it.” His mother tuts over the line. God, why was this even happening. “You've never brought anyone home before, can I not be just the little bit excited about this?”

 

“No.”

 

“Well, I am.” Mickey feels a smile tug at his lips, there was no reason for it, but he did miss the sound of his mothers voice. Even if it completely reminded him of the worst days with his father. It made him feel guilty, but proud at the same time – he was finally showing his fuck of a father that being gay wasn't that shit. Even if it did take him a long time to accept it himself – the first person he was bringing home, and it was a sham. Taking people home wasn't him, he fucking hated that romantic bullshit that just _didn't_ exist in the real world. He's never felt strongly about a person to even break that barrier, and he doesn't about Ian either.

 

How could he? It's a relationship built on a bet.

 

All he has to do is focus on the pitch, on the campaign that was coming sooner than he had expected, it would open doors to the future, and help him forget about the fuck-show of this whole situation was.

 

“Just fucking stop with the excitement, aright. We ain't serious. He's just-” Mickey falters, unsure what to say because Ian was acting as two people most of the time. “He's really fucking weird, and a little persistent, and he insisted on meeting you.”

 

His mother hums, unconvinced. “Stop being an ass, and I'll see you tonight. Shall I invite anyone else?”

“No.” Mickey tries not to yell, Mandy's eyes shoot up from the desk, eyebrows raised. “No, just you, aright? I can't have a two shit-shows in one week.” He doesn't want to remember which one he was referring to; the ruined dinner, the fucking concert that he had planned to kill himself in, or the fact Ian went bat-shit crazy in-front of everyone.

 

The shit-show was the whole fucking thing.

 

“Okay, Okay. God, stop being such a Milkovich.” She laughs down the line, she'd always say that, apparently being a Milkovich meant being a dick, but he didn't really care. He was always a dick. Then he can tell she's distracted, most likely planning a huge buffet just for the three of them, lavish and embarrassing.

 

When he hangs up, Mandy smirks at him. “Is she planning your engagement party?” They both knew their mother, and as much as she was a hard-ass, that was exactly what she was doing.

 

***

That night, Mickey goes to pick Ian up on his bike, his bag slung over his shoulder. Ian steps out of his apartment block; wearing a leather jacket, a white slick t-shirt and a pair of black-jeans that clung to his ass. Mickey tried not to stare, he _really_ did. But Ian was looking just like he had the night he had picked him out. “Damn, Gallagher.”

 

Shit. Did he just say that out loud.

 

The redhead just smiles, bashfully, slinging his black, back-pack onto his shoulder. “We taking the bike?” He almost looks hopeful, stroking the black tint of the plant with the tip of his fingers, before sliding behind Mickey on the bike.

 

“Why, you got a fucking problem with that?” Mickey remarks, waiting for Ian to pull out his bitching game about how the bike was tiring, or how it hurt his ass just sit on it for so long. Unusually, nothing came out of Ian's mouth that resembled a bat-shit crazy hormonal chick.

 

“Nope.” Ian breathes against Mickey's ear. “You're lucky I think this thing is kind of hot.” Ian grumbles, his arms slipping around Mickey's waist as the brunette kicks off the bike-stop. Mickey doesn't want to acknowledge the spark of something low in his gut, not for the first time this week, but he thought it was that vegetarian food that Ian shoved in his mouth. He bites his lip as the spark multiplies when Ian's arms clasp around him, hot breath against his ear.

 

“Let's get this show on the road, _literally.”_ Ian laughs like a smart-ass and Mickey can't believe the change in the guy since the day before, when they were screaming in each others face in a fucking counselling room. Even though, he kind of hated Ian's alter ego of bitch-fit, he couldn't lie and say he didn't miss it. 

 

Turning on the engine, the rumble of the bike against his chest, he retorts back. “You're such a fucking dick.” But there's this thing inside of him that makes him want to laugh too.

 

***

Mickey had only been home once since his move from the place, he'd taken the train and it got lost all in a space of one hour. So this time, he  _ knew  _ where he was going and made sure that the sat-nav on his phone corrected him if need be. It's kind of nice really, and Mickey didn't do nice nor receive it, zoning through the empty roads, Ian pressed to his back like he was scared to let go. 

 

They arrive eventually, and Mickey slides off the bike with a growing feeling of dread brewing in his stomach. The house was still the same, maybe a little bigger. His mom had moved to the country side when they were young, it was small but cottage-type home. There were many lit fire places, many spiders and crawlies larking about. Despite how much good came from it, he still could see his dad barging through with a shot-gun, threatening to kill Mickey for getting it up the ass. 

 

Ian places a hand against Mickey's shoulder, obviously sensing something was up, when the memory suddenly shudders away as the door swings open the lit front-door. It's his mother, because of course it was – she'd probably been waiting by the window, hoping that each noise was Mickey's car pulling up. She cuts across the small patch of the lawn, and drags Mickey into a hug.

 

“Jesus, Mick.” She laughs into his neck, holding a hand against his hair. “It's been too long.”

 

“Yeah, not long enough.”

 

She slaps him lightly, giving him a warning through her narrowed eyes. “You watch your tone,or I'll kick your ass.” Ian snorts at the threat, loving the whole dynamic between the two. Mickey turns to the noise, first glaring at him, and then rests a hand on Ian's shoulder.

 

“Mom, this is Gal-Ian. Ian, this is my mom.”

 

“Franks kid?” She asks, arching her eyebrow with a hand on her hip.

 

Ian nods, but quickly scrunches his face in confusion of his answer. “Well, yeah, but no. My mom slept with his brother and that's how I came out. Long story, really.” He shrugs, and Mickey's shocked at how he never knew that Ian was Franks kid, how did he not put that piece together?

 

“C'mere, I'm Layla.” Mickey's mom pulls him into a tight hug, her hands wrapping around his back – it was weird to feel this, he never had to feel this. When she pulls away, to gives him a defiant smile, a little devious. “You fuck this up, I'll fuck you up.” She refers to her son, nodding her head to confirm her threat.

 

Mickey gulps, knowing that it  _ wouldn't  _ Ian who fucked it up. It would be him. He wasn't too sure how he'd cope with the wrath of his mother. 

 

“I won't.” Ian promises, his voice a little shaky. Mickey smirks, knowing that his mother still held her bad-ass tone and personality. She gestures for them to follow her in, the smell of vegetables and soup hitting them as they stepped through the door.

 

During dinner, Mickey feels his mom kick him under the table, her eyes glinting in the way he knew she was up to something. “So, Ian. What did you did to make Mickey bring you here. He never just comes out of the blue.” Mickey can't help feel guilty for that.

 

“Why, was all of his other boyfriends bullshit losers, who didn't want to come up here?” Ian asks, pardoning himself when he realised he sounded like a dick. Mickey grins around his fork, catching the sudden break-through moment that Ian had given into. Mickey liked this Gallagher, the confident, asshole that he had come to grips with on the first night.

 

Layla shakes her head, clearing her mouth from any food. “What other boyfriends? Mickey hates relationships, he couldn't hold one for at-least two days. You must be something special if he's kept you around for this long.”

 

Mickey chokes on his food. “A week.” He confirms, trying to wash away the guilt he had planted in his chest. 

 

“A week and a day, but hey – who's counting.” Ian smiles, shaking his fork across the table. Layal brings her knees up against the chair, resting her face in her hand. She looks between the two, a little memorised but proud simultaneously. Mickey grabs the top of his beer and downs the lot, not looking anywhere near Ian's eyes.

 

Mickey watches as his mother and fake-bet-boyfriend chatter effortlessly throughout the dinner. His mother has her head thrown back, laughing at some crude joke that Ian pulled. The redhead is grinning smugly, gently swallowing each piece of vegetable he could chew on. It's like the whole thing had turned on its head, like he's gone into some weird portal to another dimension, because Ian was different – he was natural, he wasn't trying to hard and not once had he become the crazy son-of-a-bitch he'd been all week. Well, okay. A week and a day.

 

“Why don't you have some wine, Mickey, show your boyfriend a little _class.”_ She gestures to the half-full bottle in the middle of the table, and he doesn't hesitate to grab it. This was all too much, wasn't it? He refills an empty glass from the table, and watches as Ian smiles softly, looking towards him through his lashes from across the table. His face is more open, more lit, than he had seen all week, maybe since the first night they went to that shitty restaurant and ate crap burgers and chips. There's something inside of him that's pushing him towards Ian's lips, the red tainted lips – plump from the glass of red-wine. It's an urge he _might_ had thought he felt before, but not often, Ian had never looked _that_ attractive till now. It catches him off guard, makes him splash a little wine onto the tablecloth. 

 

Mickey did not kiss. He didn't. Not once has he places his lips against someone else.

 

Why did he want to change that now?

 

Ian gives him a questioningly look, his eyes filled with both confusion and concern. His mother waves her hand to the red pool beside Mickey's plate, laughing it off. Until she stops, her eyes narrowing towards her son as if she was puzzling something out. He hates that look. “Hey, it's aright, Mickey. Just a fucking tablecloth, I'll just say its blood next time that tax man wants to manhandle me out of the house.”

 

Ian snorts into laughter, pleading that she tells him the story. Mickey's not sure if that was the best sound he'd heard.

 

***

They both vacate into Mickey's old room at the end of the night, both glancing towards each-other when they notice its a double bed. They hadn't slept together, hell – they hadn't even fucked yet. Mickey sighs and knows if he doesn't let Ian sleep in the bed, the whining might come back to bite him on the ass. He's liking this Ian, he doesn't want to bring back the other side of him.

 

He grabs the blankets sprawled across the top of the bed and lays it against the carpet, grabbing a couple of pillows to rest his head on. Ian gives him a odd look, pulling off his pants and chucking them in the corner. Mickey couldn't resist but look in the corner of his eye, watching as Ian stripped from his clothing and revealed his god-like body, that glistened in the ray of light coming from the lamp.

 

There's a tightness in his pants, but he ignores it, he too stripping from his clothes and lobbing them into a pile at the end of the bed. Ian's boring his eyes into him, stood in just his boxers. Mickey's eyes quickly trail over Ian's chest, the bumps in the skin, the curve of his v-line, the bulge resting in his pants. It doesn't stop Mickey pulling the covers over himself urgently, laying against the hard, cold ground that he should be used to. It had been a long time, after all. 

 

Ian huffs, itching at his neck as he climbs into the bed guilty. Turning the lamp off, they both rest in a distinctive silence. “You don't have to sleep down there, you know. This  _ is  _ your bed.” Ian speaks through the darkness, his voice soft and but hoarse through tiredness. 

 

“Yeah, well, it doesn't fucking matter.” Mickey tries not to be harsh about it, but he doesn't want this feeling in his chest, he doesn't want to take the blatant offer Ian was giving him, because he didn't want to feel it and get hurt. “Just go to sleep, Gallagher.”

 

“I like your mom.” Ian ignores his complete, the sound of his fingers tapping against the top of quilt loud against the silence of the room. “She's like a younger Gemma Teller.”

 

Mickey sits up on his elbows, trying to see Ian through the pitch-black darkness. “Gemma  _ who?” _

 

Ian groans frustratedly, the sheets shuffling as he sat up a little. He peers over the edge of the bed, and even through the darkness Mickey can see that stupid, lob-sided grin. Was this all an act? Mickey was too sure which Ian was the real one. The redhead huffs, tilting his head. “You've never seen Son's Of Anarchy?”

 

“Well obviously fucking not.”

 

“Basically, she's really fucking bad-ass.” Ian explains himself, scooting a little further along the bed to take a look at Mickey. The brunette just huffs, he's heard that before. “She's like you, or _you're_ like her should I say.” 

 

Mickey flips him off, turning his back away from Ian before he did something stupid like pounce on the fucker, or  _ worse,  _ if he got up and kissed him. Ian takes the hint and flops back into Mickey's bed, humming to himself before he speaks again. “You should watch it.” 

 

“Maybe I will.” Mickey answers back, sleepily.

 

Ian chuckles a little, “Maybe I'll join you.”

 

“You've already seen it.”

 

“I don't care.”

 

Mickey turns onto his back, rubbing a hand through his hair. “Fine, you do that.”

 

Ian's laughing again, and Mickey can't do anything seriously anymore without that happened. Through his stifled laughter, Ian manages to breath, “Fine, I will.”

 

It takes Mickey forever to fall asleep.

 

***

 

Ian loves this. All of it. He didn't expect to at _all,_ but Mickey and his mother are so alike and it sends a weird clenchy feeling in Ian's chest that he can't control. The how is so warm and _lived_ in, even though she lives alone – which Ian hates the thought of, because even if she could kill a man with her pinky, she still deserved the best. It makes him feel like he's back home, in the Gallagher house, before Lip went away, before they all separated and went off in their own lives. It reminded him of house much he missed Debbie, Carl and Liam, and how he really needed to call them and check up on how they were all doing. Layla would give him hugs, like super bear hugs, that already made him feel like he _belonged._ He wondered is Mickey would give hugs like that.

 

It makes his chest ache a little, how she hugs him when he walks through into the kitchen – like he's in the family, like he's actually part of something. He misses it. He misses being a _family._ All matters go worse when Mickey trails in, bed-hair, bare footed, holding a can of beer as he runs over to the stove and nabs a piece of bacon. Ian can't help but smile.

 

But he can't help but feel guilty in the fact he lead Mickey on just to write some dumb article.

 

Another thing that Ian couldn't stop thinking about, was Mickey's sudden strange look the night before – how the spilled the wine while he said nothing at all, how he didn't bark around like he was trying to scare someone off. It was strange. It was like Mickey was slowly opening up, and again Ian felt guilty. He didn't like it when Mickey had to sleep, spread out on a thin blanket on the wooden floor – sleeping arrangements hadn't crossed his mind, but when Mickey had stripped down into his boxers – his pale chest all smooth-looking and glimmering, Ian suddenly just wanted to lay beside him, pull him up into the bed and curl into his body.

 

It was ridiculous, Ian knew, he was supposed to be driving this guy away to want to get closer to him. It wasn't part of the plan but he couldn't help it.

 

“What are you two doing today?” Layla asks, breaking Ian out of his thoughts as she slides a plate of scran before him. Ian looks over to Mickey, because he had no idea what the other had planned for them this weekend.

 

“Fuck knows.” Mickey answers, digging into his own food raucously.

 

Layla walks over and swats the top of his head, sitting down beside Ian, smiling as he approved the eggs and bacon appreciatively. Ian loves how they both moved around eachother so easily, the little jokes, the little touches and smiles of familiarity, He would of never put Mickey as a family person – he always seemed like an alone wolf. But this was a family, it was warm and it was just home.

 

“Why don't you take him to the shooting range?” She suggests, winking towards Ian.

 

Mickey scoffs, catching a glance towards the redhead before swallowing. “Shooting range? It's just an abandoned fucking building, mom.” Then Ian's suddenly intrigued, Mickey was quite defensive over this “shooting range” and Ian wanted to find out why.

 

“Take him.”

 

Ian buts in, resting his fork against the side of his plate. “Yeah, take me.”

 

The older boy shoots him a glare, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. “It ain't anything special.”

 

***

Mickey drives them to a set of old, abandoned buildings. Mickey was right it wasn't all that special, but Ian could sense that it _was_ to Mickey. He follows him through spaces of rubble, up some broken stairs – which obviously he didn't check Mickey's ass out, why would he do that? - and onto an open roof-top that was filled with rubbish, beer cans – a couple of bullets. “So, this is it.” Mickey beckoned, mockingly with a wave of his hand.

 

Ian smirks, scoffing a little. “You going to show me how to shoot?”

 

Mickey flips him off, pulling out a gun from the waist-band of his jeans. “Fuck off, Gallagher, I know you know how to shoot.” He fires a couple of bullets into a make-shift target at the end of the roof, hitting it just a little off centre.

 

“So close _but_ so far.” Ian comments, cockily. Standing behind Mickey, he watches as the brunettes eyes clock from side to side, trying to stop himself from looking at him. Ian feels a burn in his chest, something uncontrollable that he knew he needed to get rid of. All his eyes can see is the flex of Mickey's muscles through the sleeveless tank, the tension in his back as each bullet fires aggressively.

 

This was different. This wasn't what he expected. He knew Mickey was a south-side thug, who needed a gun to live most of the time, but all he had seen for the past week was a badass business man, that wore suits and shining shoes. Now, Mickey was in baggy sweats, a black tank, and Ian could take his eyes of him.

 

Mickey misses again.

 

Ian steps forward, his body shadowing Mickey's. “Here, let me show you.”

 

“I know how to fucking shoot.” Mickey shakes Ian's arm away, leading the gun back up to aim.

 

“I know.” Ian nods, leaning back into Mickey's space again. He slips his arm over Mickey's, fingers trailing down the blonde hairs that sprawled across it. His hand grabs onto Mickey's, wrapping his fingers around the gun. “I just want to show you how to _aim.”_

 

Mickey scoffs, shifting awkwardly in the hold, fingers twitching. Ian was liking this closeness, his chest pressed onto Mickey's back. Sure, it felt like this on the bike, but this was more...intimate. Mickey turns his head to the side, gun still firm in his hold. “How about I aim for your fucking head?”

 

Ian tuts, shaking his head. “You'd miss.” Then before Mickey shoots, he tilts their hands a little to the left and then the bullet goes off, landing right in the centre, the target rattling against the tin-box it was standing on.

 

“Shit.” Mickey mutters in a gasp.

 

Ian can't help but feel the hairs on Mickey's arms shoot up, like he's feeling something too. Ian couldn't let this happen.

 

“Yeah, _shit.”_

 

_***_

 

“Teach me how to ride.” Ian randomly blurts out when Mickey stops to fill up his bike. Mickey glares over to him, scoffing under his breath. A little offended and little aroused, Ian nods confirming his question.

 

“Now why the fuck would I do that?”

Ian shrugs, scooting up to the front of the bike, patting the space behind him. “Because I asked you to.” It's really because he wants nothing more than Mickey to be pressed up behind him, ill-advised or not. Mickey tilts his head, chews his lip, then grins.

 

That's when Ian ends up dropping the bike twice until he finally gets the hang of balance, but he just blames it on the warmth hooked around his back from Mickey, and the way the brunette rested his chin against his shoulder so he could show him the throttle, the clutch, the breaks. Ian can hardly breathe when Mickey's hands rest on-top of his as he holds onto the handles of the bike.

 

He's fucked

 

Like really fucked.

 

He focuses eventually, figures out how to twist enough force to get the bike to lurch forward, and soon he's zoning down the streets, winding down alleys, Mickey hanging onto his waist as he yells directions into his ear. Ian then realizes why Mickey loves this bike so much, why he literally goes everywhere on it, it's like flying. Like you've got no care in the world but the rumbling engine beneath you. It was exhilarating. Ian more free than he had in a long time.

 

“Pull over here.” Mickey directs, as they stumble to a stop at the edge of a path. They both rest for a while, as Mickey calls Mandy to tell here their mom wanted her over in the next couple of weeks. Ian smiles, watching as Mickey laughs against the phone, as his face lights up with pride as he speaks to his sister. Ian knows that look, he's had it himself.

 

Just as they bask into silence, resting against the bike, a truck drives by the lane, the water arcs from a pothole and the gust of wind directs the spray all over them. They stand covered; mud, water, bits of dirt left in the pothole. Ian yelps, clenching his eyes shut as the water clings to his face. Mickey's laughing so hard he might double over, his whole chest is soaked, his hair all damp. Ian's red stranfs as dangling across his forehead, mud dropping from the ends.

 

“This is not funny.” Ian comments, wiping his hand across his eyes, trying to remove the water so he could actually see. Mickey looks kind of cute, _really_ cute actually.

 

Mickey plucks his shirt which sticks to his chest, grinning. “It fucking is, man.” Despite the mud smeared across his cheek, Mickey's smile is still blinding. It's something Ian hadn't seen for the past week, it was kind of beautiful.

 

“Fuck you.” Ian whispers in a shout, giggling a little. “Let's go back and change, my ass is fucking soaked.” He smacks his back-side to prove his point, grinning when he catches Mickey checking it out himself.

 

“And shower.” Mickey adds, patting the top of his hair, eyes crinkling as goes to grab for his helmet.

 

***

They both clatter into the bathroom, Mickey shuts the door behind them. Ian's not sure what the plan is, if they were taking turns to wash off, if one of them was washing in the shower and the other in the sink...if they were going in together. Now, that's a thought.

 

“You look like shit.” Mickey snorts, shoving Ian into the sink as he leans over to the shower.

 

“Fuck off, so do you.” Ian bites back, checking his complexion in the mirror. He was covered in mud and water, and it clung to his body like a parasite. He watches a very soaked Mickey leaning into the shower, his smile drops when he realises the reason they met in the first place.

 

“...Now, this ain't some fucking five star hotel, so don't expect steam showers.” Mickey starts, his hand behind the shower curtain as Ian sits himself down against the toilet lid. “The hot is actually the cold and the cold is actually the hot, you've just gotta crink it all the way up to first.” Ian hears the twist of the tap head, the squeak before the water rushes out against the tiles. “Someone uses the toilet its going to fucking scold you, so watch out.” Mickey pops his head back out, a grin still plastered on his face, before it drops completely.

 

Ian's picking at the hem of his shirt, looking down towards the floor.

 

“Everything okay over there?” Mickey asks, for the first time he notices he hasn't cursed within a sentence. Ian's looking all sad, eyes glazing over, Mickey feels his stomach twist and turn and he's unsure what to do about it, he just wants that expression on Ian's face to just disappear. When Ian doesn't answer, Mickey pushes off stronger. “ _Gallagher.”_

 

Ian shrugs, picking at his fingers, he looks up with a weak smile over his face. “Oh no, It's _more_ than okay.”

 

Mickey stands in shock, he was expecting a whiny-Gallagher to say something. But Ian's just the same as he was and had been all day. Hands on his hips, he stays quiet, inhaling Ian from the other side of the room; the way his white shirt stuck tightly against his chest, the way his hair was standing up in a million directions, the way his face was so soft and so innocent.

 

Mickey was starting to forget that this all started off as a bet.

 

“It's just the house.” Ian starts, his voice so delicate and soft Mickey only just hears him.

 

“What the fuck is wrong with it?” Mickey narrows his tone. It's not a mansion by any means but it isn't _that_ bad.

 

Ian slaps his hands against his wet pants, “Nothing.” Turning his head, he smooths out his expression and sighs heavily. “I just, I just love everything about it. I love the noise, the smells. It reminds me of back home.” And it did, everything about it – it reminded him of the days the Gallagher house was full, the days where they would have to shove Frank back out the front door because he tried to dip into the squirrel fund.

 

“I don't know what you think _is_ like back-home, I don't remember south-side having fucking cows running around in fields and shit.” Mickey laughs, hands still on his hips, the noise breaks Ian's face into a smile, closing his eyes as he inhales the sweetness of Mickey's giggle.

 

That's until it comes back to him; not just the fact he's lead Mickey on for a story in his magazine, but he misses back home. He misses the old house, the old smells, the noise. The fact that you'd wake up and the house would already be turned upside down with Carl's knives and Debbie's glitter. He misses the way Liam would giddily climb over _anything_ and most of the time it was Frank. Obviously, he's still got Fiona – and he's thankful for that – but he misses his brother. Lip. He misses how they were best-friends, telling each-other everything, and now Ian was stuck, he felt like he had no one. (Well, he had Mickey, but this was about _him.)_

 

Ian doesn't realise that he's dazing towards the ground, until Mickey rounds over to him, hands still placed against his hips. The brunette, unexpectedly, steps close to Ian as he's sat on the lid of the toilet. He's standing directly in-front of him, looking down towards Ian's bent down head. Making Ian jump a little, he crouches down at the foot of the toilet, his face at the same level as his. Leaning against the back of his legs, he rests his palms on Ian's legs.

 

“What's wrong?” He asks, hair all over the show, eyes sincere.

 

Ian can't look at him, not yet, he feels the burning in his chest and now its never going to go, he can tell. As much as he tried, it pushed itself back up. Still looking down at his fingers, Ian answers, a sweet smile at the corner of his lips, “I don't know. Just, your mum, she-” Ian swallows, and tries to find his words, this time locking his eyes with Mickey's. “She really hugged me. Like she hugs you. Like-Like, I belong.” Ian's lip quivers, tears resting at the brim of his eyes, he pinches his nose and lets out a shuddering breath.

 

“She must really like you, she doesn't fucking hug anyone.” Mickey chuckles, pulling Ian's hand away from his face, his tone softer than usual.

 

The redhead gulps, nodding a little. “I just, I never felt like I _belonged_ anywhere, you know?” And he wasn't just referring to his childhood, or the fact that he was gay and he was literally getting beaten the shit out of days on end, he was talking about the fact he had some stupid _disorder_ that made him seem crazy to everyone else.

 

Mickey licks his lips, shifting a little on his heels, his eyes swoop into Ian's, blue trapped within green. “Looks like we're on the same boat, Gallagher.” He whispers, his hand absently sweeping a piece of hair out of Ian's face, as the younger boy gives out a wet laugh.

 

“Really?” Ian asks, a little struck back at Mickey's sudden rise in touchy-feely side and the way he was _actually_ using words for once.

 

Mickey nods, biting at the side of his lip. “I'll always be a south-side piece of trash no matter where the hell I live.”

 

And Ian couldn't agree more. They were both going to be that, no matter where they went, it would always stick with them. The past, the place, the sounds. Ian itches the top of his shoulder, letting his lip curl up with agreement. “Me too.”

 

“Now fucking smile, you big baby.” Mickey laughs, hands slightly squeezing into Ian's thighs. “Come on, show me what makes you money, Gallagher.”

 

Ian scoffs, swatting his hand away. “Fucking fine.” He does the cheesiest, most false, most ugly smile he can make out of his face, and tries not to laugh when Mickey's smirking before him.

 

“Yep, just creep the shit out of me. That's it.” Mickey encourages him, not noticing his own hands running gently up and down Ian's thighs. When Ian leans down shyly, his face flushing red, Mickey doesn't expect himself to but he can't resist. He doesn't think about the implications, about the myriad reasons not to, or the fact he was literally shitting himself to do so, he leans forward and grabs the side of Ian's face, pressing his own mouth to his. Ian sits in shock, hands still resting on the side of the toilet lid, and Mickey suddenly feels the drop in his stomach, the one telling him that Ian didn't really want this. Until, he felt a little gasp against his lips, and the way Ian fell into it, his own hand resting at the top of Mickey's arm.

 

Mickey pulls back anyway, more for the reason he was scared of his own actions, his eyes scanning over Ian's body, his mouth, his eyes, even his _ears._ Ian's eyebrows draw together, eyes skipping over Mickey features with a slight cocky grin. It's like a magnet, Mickey was drawn to Ian by an unknown current, and he feels himself leaning in slowly when Ian surges forward at the same time, causing both of them to bang hands, noses clashing together.

 

“Ah, shit.” Mickey presses the heel of his hand against his head.

 

Ian giggled, wiping a hand underneath his nose to check if there was any blood. “Sorry.”

 

Mickey answers with sealing their mouths back together, he liked the taste of Ian. No, he fucking _loved_ the taste of Ian, the way his soft lips kissed against his rough ones, the way his hands slowly creeped to the curve of his back. It's still short, in testing, and Ian finally pulls back hands moving back to his own thighs. Then he's lifting his arms, straightening them over his head, mouth splitting into a crooked grin.

 

Mickey takes the hint, gathering the wet material of Ian's shirt in his fists, standing up to his feet, and tugging it slowly over Ian's head. The redhead wafts his hair a little, giggling up towards Mickey who shook his head. Mickey drops it behind him, landing it on the bathmat, he looks down to Ian – who's still smug and adorable as ever – and lifts his own arms.

 

Ian quickly stands up, over-powering Mickey in his own height, he tilts his head and skims his hands under Mickey's own wet tank, palms skidding over the damp skin underneath, the skin he so wanted to touch and _finally_ he got the chance to. The neckline catches underneath his chin, and Ian helps him push through it, gentle hands pulling the hole over Mickey's head. Mickey falls slightly, colliding with Ian's chest, they both laugh a little, breathless already, as they keep staring at eachother. Just as Mickey traces a shape on Ian's shoulder, he looks up through his lashes and Ian can't help but gather him up with a kiss. Mickey's smaller, a little too smaller, so Ian pulls him up so he's stood on his tiptoes, their chests smacked together with steam, mud and damp. He smiles into the kiss, his hands clumsily trying to unbutton Mickey's jeans.

 

Mickey can't stop kissing him, he can't stop, he hadn't kissed anyone before and he never wanted to kiss anyone else. Even when they march in place, shimmering their jeans off, hands shoving at waistbands of boxers, half-laughing at each other as their mouths find eachother again. Mickey tried to imagine what kissing Ian was like, just moments before he did, out on the roof-stop, maybe even in the restaurant the first day they met, but it was more than he had expected.

 

With one hand around the curve of Ian's hip, Mickey walks backwards towards the shower, pulling Ian with him. “Fuck-, Just-” He says, pressing the word into the corner of Ian's mouth, he leans into the shower, hand fumbling for the tap. “Just let me.”

 

The water blasts cold, hitting both of their naked bodies fiercely. “Holy fucking shit.” Mickey yells into a laugh, twisting them around so they weren't under the spray of the tap. Ian's still grinning, and its still irritating, but even more fucking _cute,_ and Mickey doesn't use that word that often. Never. Ian's mouth is moving against his skin, from his jaw, collarbone, down to the side of his neck, placing open mouthed kisses softly against the wet skin. Mickey giggles when Ian's teeth sink into the curve of his shoulder, his obvious tickle spot, he squirms still trying to turn the tap so it hit the right temperature.

 

They nearly die. Mickey nearly topples them over under the ravish spray. Then Ian touches his tongue to Mickey's mouth, as the brunettes hair dripped all down his face. Mickey can feel his heart pump against chest, his pulse speeding up against the hot, but cool, fingers that were attached to Ian. He flinches as Ian pushes the two of them under the spray, his hands slipping down the panes of his back and to the swell of his ass. Gasping, Mickey groans against the touch, letting Ian lift him easily, pressing him against the tiled wall.

 

Mickey hisses, his body slightly arching to Ian, his hands looped around Ian's broad shoulders. “Shit. Fuck, that was cold.”

 

“Sorry.” Ian mouths, taking this as a moment of advantage to warm Mickey right up. Fastening his mouth under Mickey's jaw, his fingers bruise against the brunettes hips. His tongue then moves down the wet column of his throat, nipping slightly against it. Mickey arches, gasping and panting into the crook of Ian's shoulder, his cock bobbing against Ian's toned abs. Ian gets his hand around it, pumping at it a little, tightening his fingers as he jerks slowly, rubbing his thumb just under the crown of it. His other hand is holding Mickey upright, keeping the gap between them as small as possible.

 

Ian lets Mickey's cock rock between them, his hand trailing down in-between Mickey's ass. Slowly, and gently, he pushes his finger in, moaning himself at the sound of Mickey cry out around him.

 

“Shit.” Mickey groans, reaching between them to grab both of their dicks together, rubbing his hand down the both of them simultaneously. His thighs are trembling around Ian's waist, his calf curled around his waist. Ian rocks his hips into Mickey's hands, gasping as his own finger does some work, they start to work up a rhythm, both of them rolling their hips against eachother. Mickey rests his head against Ian's shoulder, his eyes nearly rolling back each-time Ian's fingers go crooked inside of him. His hand moves faster, pumping the both of them, he flicks his wrist, finger stroking over the leaking, slit of Ian's cock.

 

“Holy shit, Mick.” Ian gasps out, groaning with every syllable.

 

Mickey comes first, shooting his load between them, his hand still rubbing and circling around Ian's cock. His other hand was clawed into Ian's back, his tongue licking at the seam of Ian's lips. The redhead doesn't come much later, his whole body nearly buckling under the touch.

 

Ian finally lets the older boy down, grabbing onto his waist protectively. They soap eachother up, their legs still shaking, still smiling bashfully each time the other snook a glance. They stand under the spray, chest to chest, until the water starts to go cold.

 

***

Ian can't help but smile. They hadn't spoken a word since they got all sweet, and hot, in the shower. They had walked out of the bathroom, towels against their waists, grinning like idiots and they walked back to their room. This time, Mickey didn't slump himself onto the floor with his make-shift bed, he walked over to the vacant side of the bed and pulled back the quilt, looking in confusion when Ian stood watching.

 

“You getting in or what?” He asks, eyes showing that glint.

 

Smugly, Ian nods, unravelling the towel from his waist he too pulls back the quilt and slips into the double bed. It's awkward at first, they both just lay side by side, staring up at the ceiling. Until, Mickey turns to his side, staring directly towards Ian. “Stop over thinking shit.” He whispered, shuffling a little uncomfortably.

 

“I'm not.” Ian tries to act defensive.

 

“Yes you are. What are you thinking?” Mickey asks, out of the blue, it was like Ian had been sent to some strange remote island where Mickey showed his feelings, where he actually _talked._

Ian juggles the idea of turning, but then he does, he mirrors Mickey's position and rests on his arm. “Can I ask you something?”

 

Mickey nods, a panic in his chest rising incase Ian some-how knew about the bet. About everything.

 

“Can I cuddle you?”

 

“Fuck off, no.” Mickey scoffs, shoving Ian's pleading hands away.

 

Whining, Ian pouts. “Why?”

 

“I ain't a fucking bitch, aright? I don't need you to fucking cuddle me.” Then Mickey turns around, shutting the lamp off as he tried to sleep. Which would never happen when he could literally hear Ian thinking behind him, he doesn't want to cuddle. No, he fucking does not.

 

-

 

Ian wakes up a couple of hours later, its still dark outside and nearing three o'clock. There's a strange feeling in his arms, its warm, its heavy. Through the dark he glances at what he is holding, and he nearly gasps at the sight. Pressed to his chest, hand intertwining with his is the one and only Mickey Milkovich. The brunette is laying against Ian's left arm, his back stuck against the skin of Ian's chest. The sight is beautiful, more than that even.

 

He can't help but feel his heart fall to his stomach.

 

Shit.

 

Was he falling for Mickey?

 

***

Ian couldn't help but want to cry the closer they got to Chicago.

 

They had left early in the morning, packing all their stuff as messy as they could possess. Ian made sure that Mickey brought his gun home with him, just for shooting range purposes. Layla had hugged Mickey for a long time, silently passing him sweet words in his ear. Ian couldn't help but tear up when he had to say goodbye, she had become family, someone he could trust, he didn't want to say goodbye to that.

 

“Ian make sure you kick his ass to get up here again, yeah?” Layla warned, smacking Mickey lightly against the cheek. Ian nodded meekly, wiping a thumb underneath his eye.

 

***

It's day ten.

 

The advertising dinner was _that_ night. Mickey had asked Ian to go, guilt driving in his stomach. He wasn't sure what the hell was going on, but he _needed_ this pitch. It wasn't like Ian would find out? He had his suit all picked out, waiting for him to pull on. Mickey can't resist but feel fucking shit about the whole situation, but a deal was a deal.

 

A bet is a bet.

 

***

His story is due by the end of tomorrow. Ian wants to cry as Mickey pulls up his bike at the front of his apartment building. With a shudder, he tightens his arms around Mickey's waist, wilding contemplates asking him to go back. Maybe they could do the weekend all over, be something they knew neither of them were, forget about stupid jobs.

 

Ian pries his fingers apart and slides off the bike seat reluctantly. Mickey's staring down at the handles of his bike, words unformed now they were back home. Ian wished that Mickey felt safe to say the things he actually wanted to say, Ian wanted to hear it.

 

Why did he want to hear it?

 

“Be ready at seven, Gallagher. I ain't fucking waiting hours while you do your hair.” Mickey pushes away his thoughts, taking his helmet off. Ian doesn't think, he leans forward and runs a hand through Mickey's hair – obviously, the brunette flinches, he scans the area. Ian wished it didn't have to be like this.

 

“I'll be ready.” Ian says, trying to force his smile back.

 

“Better be.”

 

Rolling his eyes, cooperating the casual shrug, Ian scoffs. “When am I never punctual?” His chests clams as Mickey's face curls up into a smirk, that devious twang that made everything in his head go all funny. God, what was happening to him?

 

Mickey taps his chin, humming to himself quietly. “I can think of one time. You were pretty late actually.” Mickey felt himself referring to a lot of things; the game, the dinner, the counselling, _even_ the sex they carried on the night before. Most importantly, he was talking about how long it took Ian to realise.

 

To realise that Mickey was using him for a pitch, that he was just some bet picked out in a bar? Mickey couldn't help but want to be sick with guilt.

 

“Fuck off.” Ian shows him his middle finger, shaking his head with a laugh. “Now get gone, asshole. I've got a suit I have to fetch out for your pansy dinner.” He waves a hand towards his clothing; if it was up to him, he would of just gone in black jeans and his white shirt, but Mickey had insisted he wore a suit. Ian was beginning to think it wasn't just because it was a black-tie campaign.

 

Mickey flings his hands up in surrender, waggling his eyebrows. “Jeez, I'm fucking leaving. Don't try and get me away quick enough, will you?” He shoves his helmet back on, smacking the top with finality, before adjusting himself against the bike and turning out from the curb.

 

Sighing, Ian bundles his bag onto his shoulder, ready to go into his apartment and binge watch Netflix for a couple of hours, mope around with boxes of fast-food, get the girls around to help him look rather presentable in a suit, with embedded crying in the middle.

 

***

He looks like a bitch. Ian is sat, waiting on the curb outside of his apartment, five minutes before Mickey had told him to be there. He hopes that Mickey doesn't pull up on his motorbike and splash him fully with the puddle that was just by his feet. To Ian's surprise he doesn't. Mickey climbs out of a sleek and polished Mercedes that purred as it pulled up against the side-walk.

 

Ian wants to pull his eyes away, he really does, but when Mickey emerges in a fitted, black suit, his hair combed back both messy and groomed, blue eyes popping out against the dark-lit street; it was hard to resist. Ian can't breathe looking at him. His own black, okay fitted suit, shit in comparison to Mickey's.

 

At least he remembered the black tie.

 

“ _Damn,_ Gallagher.” Mickey wolf whistles as he nears over, his eyes checking Ian over like a hungry animal. If it wasn't for their surroundings, Ian would have had him there. Bent over the car. 

 

“Will you ever call me by my name?” Ian asks, arching his right eyebrow. His ass is cold against the side-walk, and his heart is beating at about a million miles per hour, and he can't help but feel his toes curl in his shoes when Mickey places his palm out.

 

Mickey shakes his hand a little, gesturing that Ian take it and quickly. Public affection wasn't his thing, and this was something Ian had to be thankful for. “I can do whatever the fuck I want,  _ Ian,  _ so shut the hell up and grab my hand.” 

 

It takes him until Mickey's dragging him to his feet, clanging their chests together, for Ian to actually reply, his throat clogging up a a little. With one hand still in Mickey's, his pulls at Mickey's tie and pulls his face up to his, their noses touching. “You're not so bad yourself,  _ Milkovich.”  _

 

Mickey's smile is wide and proud, filled with glee that Ian can't help but feel a punch to his gut.

 

A large punch to the fucking gut.

 

Ian remains quiet in the car, not that Mickey notices, as he's pressed up against the brunettes side. Mickey keeps sneaking glances at him, biting his lip as if he wants to say something or  _ do  _ something. It causing Ian to panic, to come up with many scenarios that could play out; how Mickey might actually find out why they met in the first place, and this whole thing would be over, they would be over. 

 

Ian didn't want it to be over.

 

So he lunges forward, one hand at the side of Mickey's face as he roughly attaches their lips together. It's desperate, it's clear he needs it, but Mickey doesn't question it he just pulls Ian closer, biting at his bottom lip, moaning into a gasp as Ian's hand trails up his chest and around his neck. It doesn't stop until they pull up at the party, the driver pardoning them as he cleared his throat. 

 

They both jerk away from each-other, their lips both red and swollen from the kiss. Ian wants to drag Mickey down to the seat, keep him pinned there as he fucked him hard and good, because he knew, he just  _ knew _ , that this dinner would be the beginning of the end. The moment that things would fuck up, and it would leave him in shatters. 

 

Mickey smooths his hands down the collar of his shirt, pulling Ian's jackets over the redheads shoulders and back into its original place. “Lets fucking do this, shall we?” Ian doesn't have a good enough reason to say no, so he follows, the both of them stepping out of the car as the driver held the door open for them.

 

Ian didn't like people doing things for him, this all felt too weird and too intense. One simple sigh that told him things weren't going to go right.

 

The place is beautiful, an old, grand hotel with a set of stone steps in the front. Both Mickey and Ian climb them together, snagging smirks in each others directions, Ian tried to hide his paranoia and replaced it with a nervous attitude. Once they stepped in, the place was filled with people in fancy gowns, pressed suits, shiny shoes and jewels were literally  _ everywhere.  _ At the centre piece it was filled with ice, fake snow, a huge diamond resting in the middle. Above it red : Frost yourself. Ian can't help but feel a hallow lump in his chest, knowing that he had spoke those exact words just days before. 

 

It wasn't hard to find their table, it was easy actually due to the immense amount of people that knew Mickey, too many for Ian's liking. A waiter offers them a glass of champagne, and Ian snags the bottle almost immediately, downing the full glass in one. Mickey pulls out a seat for Ian, waiting till he sat down to lean in and whisper in his ear, “I've got to fucking talk to people- I know fucking hideous- Do you mind?”

 

Ian shakes his empty glass, nodding. It wasn't his place to say what Mickey could do, really. “Nah, you go fucking socialise. I know how much you love it.” Ian laughs, trying to shadow the fact that he really didn't want to be there  _ alone.  _ He could already feel people watching him, judging him. 

 

“I'll get you another drink, the strong shit.” Mickey grabs the champagne flute from Ian's hands, grinning down towards him. Mickey seems happy, was that a good sign?

 

When Mickey hesitates to leave Ian, the redhead shoos him urgently. “Just go, you prick, you don't want the rich fucks to turn their nose at you.”  _ Like they already are.  _ Ian thinks, providing a civil smile to one that walks past. Mickey nods, clasping a hand against Ian's shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze, before turning to leave and walking into a crowd of people.

 

There's no doubt about it, Ian's really fucking jealous. He watches as a smooth, blonde wraps an arm around Mickey's back, her smile menacing and hungry. He wants to push her off him, kiss Mickey right there to show them  _ all  _ that he was his. Wait, was Mickey his? 

***

“Philip Gallagher.” John's voice echoes by the centre piece, his eyes growing with delight. He rounds the statue and appears before Lip, who's stood too busy trying to chat up a bunch of ladies that had surrounded by him. “You made it.”

 

“Wouldn't miss it, John.” Lip holds out his head, shaking it with his fellow other. John smiles, nodding towards the display that was hanging all around then. Lip makes an _ah_ sound, and nearly forgets that he's stood in the middle of a fancy-ass dinner. “Shit, yeah, this place is great John. How the fuck did you get all of these jewels wrapped up in here, I mean, it's pretty high stuff.” 

 

With an appreciative nod, John answers factually. “Well, it really was the work of Miss Smith, the jewels owner. But really, it's the work of one of my campaigners, Mickey Milkovich.” He points towards the brunette in the crowd, a little pride resting in his belly.

 

Lip nearly spurts his drink out, choking on some rising bubbles. “Mickey Milkovich? The south-side thug  _ Milkovich?”  _ He hadn't heard that name in years, or seen it either, he remembered the Milkoviches, he had hooked up with Mandy a couple of times before they moved. 

 

“I believe so.”

 

Scoffing, Lip scans around the room. “And you trust him with all of this?”

 

John nods with confirmation, sipping at his drink with a raised eyebrow. “Why don't you talk to him, find out. You two are from the same place, you have something in common. Use it.”

 

Lip would never comply so quickly; Mickey Milkovich was not a respectable member of the public.

 

***

 

Ian grabs a strayed glass from the empty table, downing its contents as fast as he could swallow. Distracted by the over-flow of women that surrounded Mickey, he hardly even notices the presence of a smaller man holding a fresh glass of champagne. There are two other men standing a few feet away, glaring but impeccably in ear-shot. Then the champagne delivering man smiles, passing Ian the new glass of alcohol, his eyes cold with ice.

 

“It's Ian isn't it?” The man asks, placing his own glass onto the table as Ian jolted up before him. Even if he was taller than the guy, because it wasn't hard really, he still felt like the guy was watching him, intimidating him to an extent that he really didn't want.

 

“Er...Yeah.” Ian answers, trying to work out who the hell the guy was, and how he knew his name.

 

“I'm John.” The man holds his hand out, frowning as Ian awkwardly shakes his hand. “I'm Mickey's boss, the _main_ boss. I hosted this dinner.” He flows on, as if he was trying to show it off to Ian. His eyes told different, like he knew something that Ian _should_ know. 

 

“ _Oh.”_ Ian finally realizes, wondering how the hell Mickey put up with the guy. Sure, he had mentioned him a couple of times, but it was always a subject Mickey demanded was ignored. To be crucially honest, Mickey hadn't mentioned the dinner _once_ for the whole ten days. “Oh, shit, it's a pleasure to meet you. This place is really beautiful.” 

 

John shakes his head at the compliment, acting bashful. “Oh no, the pleasure is all mine. This whole thing was designed by your man over there.” He nods in the direction of Mickey, and Ian can't help but feel a mixture of pride and confusion. “After all, you were the inspiration for his campaign pitch.” He slaps Ian against the back, smile widening against his chubby cheeks.

 

That's a slap to his heart. “Wait, I was?” Ian asks in shock, eyes casting around to find Mickey who was fully engrossed in a conversation with Mandy. Surprised, his mouth drops a gape. Mickey had never told him that, not even hinted it.

 

John nods, a little deviously. “You look a little inspired yourself.” He carries on, ignoring Ian as the redhead tilted his head, intrigued. “No jewellery shines as bright as a man in love.”

 

Ian suddenly feels like a rock has dropped into his stomach, making it ache with both pain and  _ Wait,  _ what did he feel again? Cutting in, his shakes his head rapidly. “In love? No, I'm,” He falters, mouth unmoving for a while. It had been ten days. Yes, it was clear he was very fond of Mickey, cared for him  _ way  _ more than other people in his life, considering. But love? Impossible. You can't fall in love in ten days. “I'm not.” He starts again, taking a effective amount of champagne into his system. “I can't – I've only -” He stops, the realisation kicking in. 

 

This required the heavy stuff, really.

 

It's obvious in John's eyes that he doesn't believe Ian, that he's taking the other side of the explanation. That somehow he could  _ read  _ Ian. He doesn't believe a word of it, and Ian doesn't either if he's being frank with himself – how could this happen? How could he just fall for a guy when his purpose was to push him away. 

 

John clinks his glass against Ian's, nodding smugly, the sound echoing through Ian's head like a never-ending church bell. “Nice to meet you, Ian. Mickey's a lucky man.”

 

Then he's gone, walking back to two men as he slapped their backs with laughter. Ian feels the panic starting to settle in, his knees preparing themselves to buckle.

 

Ian was in love. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

 

***

“So, have you done it, is he?” Mandy pulls at Mickey's arm, eyes widening and scanning the room. Mickey looked different, smelt and acted different, and she wasn't sure whether Ian had something to do with that.

 

“Is he what?” Mickey answers, distracted, standing by the bar waiting for two glasses of Jack and coke. He turns to his sister, feeling a little tight in his suit, he feels himself being pulled back to Ian and he's not sure why.

 

Mandy slaps his arm harshly, gritting her teeth. “Does he love you? You know, like full-blown heart eyes and fucking butterflies in your stomach  _ love? _ ” She asks, eyeing up the particular drinks in Mickey's path, wondering why the hell he had them in the first place. 

 

“I don't fucking know, I'm not his keeper.” Mickey bites back, lifting the two glasses from the bar after slamming a couple of bills against the table. “I guess we'll find out, huh.” Some-where deep down he wished Ian didn't love him, because it would make the whole bet easier to explain, but then he _needed_ him too, even if he didn't know it yet. 

 

Mandy dips her finger into one of the glasses, scowling towards the taste. “Why the hell have you got  _ that?  _ John will kick your ass, you know that.” They both knew how representation was the big key to John's events, that champagne was the only drink allowed to be purchased on the ground floor. 

 

“Ian's favourite.” He mumbles, ashamed how he knew that. Mandy looks from the glass to her brother, biting her lip as she figured it out. Shit, her eyes widening in realisation, she opens her mouth to say something to Mickey when John comes barrelling over, calling his name.

 

“Mickey!” John calls, walking through the crowd.

 

Mickey walks over, awaiting the reaction from his boss, or the answer to his own question. Did Ian actually love him? Was this his chance to pitch? John slaps a hand against his back with pride, smile basking against his red cheeks. “Saw him. Met him. He loves you. You win, get ready to pitch.” And just like that, the grey-haired man walked straight past bundling through the crowd.

 

Those words hit Mickey like a cement truck, his face stunned with shock. Ian  _ loved  _ him? Wait, he actually got the pitch?  _ The  _ pitch? His heart swells, and the happiness builds in his chest. Mandy is forming some weird victory dance before him, fist pumping the air before nabbing a glass, very quickly, from a tray in the hands of a waiter. 

 

Mickey scans the room for Ian, like he had been doing all night, he sees the redhead, sat at the table as sidestepped as Mickey felt. He's ready to walk over, tell Ian the news, maybe even kiss him right there. But  _ love? _ How was that possible. Beginning to walk over, shrugging Mandy off who wouldn't stop hugging him, he nearly bashes into a tall, curly-haired man with two glasses stalked in his hands. 

 

The guy's in a navy suit, hair styled strangely, a scowling look against his face that Mickey knew from some-where. He had a familiar look, like someone he already knew, then he saw him nod behind him. Mickey shifts, turning his head, Mandy's leaning against a pillar nodding over to the curly-haired man, who Mickey was already irritated by just looking at him.

 

“Mickey Milkovich.” The guy steps forward, shaking his head. “Nice show you've got going on here, surprised you haven't hooked all these people up with coke yet. You still a dealer these days, tough neighbourhood to hide that shit, am I right?” He gives Mickey a head tilt, a nod, and a smile that he immediately wanted to punch off.

 

“Who the fuck _are_ you?” Mickey suppresses his anger, hands going white around the glass of the drinks. His eyes aimlessly look back to Ian, he's sat with Tom and Max and Mickey instantly knows that's bad news, he tries not to think about knocking out the curly-haired fuck whilst trying to not think about how Ian would literally _shatter_ if he knew what Mickey had done. “Get out of my face, man.” 

 

“I wanted to speak to you.” The man asks, sipping at his drink before adding, “I'm Lip Gallagher, the editor-in-chief in _Men's Wear_ magazine.” Lip holds his hand out, ready for Mickey to shake, but the brunette's eyes were clasped tightly to Ian; _Ian –_ the man who was in love with him, the man who changed him in many fucking ways, the guy that his heart played beats for. 

 

“He loves me.” Mickey mutters, unintentionally.

 

Scoffing, Lip is both confusion at Mickey's confession of sexuality, but nonetheless he's doesn't really give a shit. “Good for whoever fucking loves you” He slaps Mickey's shoulder, before mumbling under his breath. “And God fucking help them.”

 

A cork from a bottle flies past, shocking Mickey out of his thoughts. Lip was a dick, he could see that now. Ian whined about him enough, his  _ brother,  _ the big Mr I Am of the office. Mickey doesn't mind punching the guy, but he was Ian's brother,  _ and  _ he needed this pitch and with actually like an animal in the middle of a campaign dinner – it wasn't very professional. 

 

Maybe  _ after  _ the dinner he could do it. 

 

Mickey settles for leaving the conversation, he catches the sight of Ian and turns towards Lip with a false smile. “If you excuse me  _ Philip,  _ I've got to get back to my date.” He gestures towards Ian who is being spoke to, with what looks like vividly, but Max and Tom and Mickey is really thinking about launching himself across the room. 

 

“What? Ian? My brother? _You_ are here with my brother?” Lip's jaw drops, scanning over Mickey with a disgusted look, before his expression changes almost completely. “I guess he got rid of the other one then, Jesus.” He downs his drink, placing it against the table that they were stood by. 

 

Mickey hardly hears what Lip says, he's mind only running through his words slowly as he watches Max and Tom intensely talk to Ian. “That's usually what date fucking means.” Then the last part repeats in his head,  _ the other one,  _ what other one? “Wait, what are you fucking talking about, what other one?” 

 

If jealously was a human, he'd be swallowing Mickey whole.

 

“He's my how-to-guy.” Lip answers, as if everyone already knew.

 

It immediately grabs Mickey's attention, his head swivelling from the picture painted in-front of him. “Your what?” Ian had never  _ really  _ spoken about his job, or what he did, or what his new plan of action was. If anything, he kept it secret, he ignored the subject whenever it came up. 

 

Clearing his throat, Lip nods in Ian's direction, “Right now, he's doing some article about how to lose a guy in ten days, I mean, he's pretty fucking annoying, but I thought he'd last till the dinner.” He laughs smugly, with admiration, his chuckle around the brim of his glass.

 

“What?” Mickey gasps out, looking over to Ian's table narrowly.

 

Lip carries on, a little proudly. “I feel sorry for the guy he'd been fake dating, I mean not even fucking that – he's been doing the worst fucking things to the dude, he  _ actually  _ pretended to be a vegetarian just to piss him off. Man, I know Ian, he fucking loves meat, in ways more than one.” 

 

The anger builds in Mickey's chest, Ian had been  _ using  _ him for some dumb fucking story, making his life a living hell just for some stupid, fucking  _ story.  _ Lip must have caught his expression, he stops speaking, gasping a little in horror, he turns to Mickey and slaps a hand against his back, causing the anger to just pile higher. 

 

“Shit. It's you, _fuck._ I would have never-” 

 

“Fuck off.” Mickey yells, his voice just overpowering the music, one of his hands pulling at the extra tight tie around his neck. Ian turns, catching his eye, tears grazing the edges of his lids. Max and Tom look smug beside him, one of them resting a consolidating hand against the redheads knee. That's when Mickey notices, he can feel it, Ian knew. Ian fucking knew about the bet.

 

It doesn't stop the pit of red forming inside of him, he  _ used  _ Ian, but Ian definitely used him. 

 

***

Ian was left alone,  _ again,  _ he was getting pretty sick of waiting for Mickey and those glasses of the hard stuff. Hopefully, he was busy getting them some tequila, or something strong enough to make him feel numb. He refills his champagne flute with the remainder of the bottle that he had nabbed from the waiter trays. That's when two random guys, both in suits, slid into the chairs beside him. 

 

“Hey.” One of them says, sitting himself down next to him. Ian chokes on a bubble, trying to wipe his mouth in a hurry for his new set of company.

 

“Yeah?” He asks, realising he'd rather be sat alone.

 

They smile at him briefly, one of them clinking his glass against his. “We, er, we work with Mickey. He's a good friend-”

 

“ _Very_ good friend-” the other adds. 

 

Ian nods, mouth curling up with a smile at the thought that Mickey had actually told his work colleagues about him. “Oh, okay.”

 

“You know,” The smaller one starts, leaning closer on his chair, “John is going to come round, in a minute, and it would be _so_ great if you would just pretend that you knew all about the bet from the start, and you and Mickey planned for you to say you _fell_ for him.” 

 

Ian stops breathing. What bet? What were they talking about? He feels his hands shake against his legs, his eyebrows scrunching in confusion. “What bet?” He asks, exchanging glances between the two. His heart started to speed up, his panic slowly kicking back in. Was there something Mickey hadn't told him?

 

“You _know_ the bet.” The other one buts in, leaning his arm on the top of Ian's chair. Ian shakes his head with a no, running a shaky hand through his hair stressfully. “The bet he made in that bar you met-” Ian can feel this getting worse. 

 

“Obviously he didn't explain it very well.” The other guy takes over, hand resting on Ian's knee. “We bet Mickey that he couldn't make _any_ man fall in love with him, so we picked someone out – _you –_ and he had ten days to make you fall for him. Which, I mean, I don't know if you have but Mickey really doesn't deserve this pitch, _we_ should get this pitch. So, you know, if you are willing to do this for us...” 

 

At that point Ian had blocked them out, it felt like his heart had been shattered into a million pieces, his chest pulsing like he was having some sort of attack. He turns around, trying to find Mickey, his eyes glazing over. When he does, he latches onto Mickey and wait – was that Lip? He too looked angry, his nose flaring just as Ian's was.

 

How could Mickey do this? How could Mickey let him fall for him just for some dumb pitch? Was that all he was, some fucking dumb instrument to play with, to meddle and form into something he wasn't. Ian felt the blood drain from his face, his breathing hitching as he noticed a familiar crush in his chest. This happened every-time. Scraping the chair across the floor, he bolts from the table and darts through the crowd towards the exit.

 

Mickey grunts, following after him through the huge doors that led to the steps they had previously walked up. Ian's already at the bottom, wiping his face frantically. Mickey yells, “Oh, no fucking way. I ain't fucking finished with you  _ Ian!”  _ he legs it down the steps, his jacket wafting rapidly through his speed. “You're a fucking pussy, you know that!” 

 

Ian jolts around, anger filled in his face as a tear streams against his cheek. “Shut the hell up, Mickey. You used me to get ahead of your fucking career.” He points his head warningly, making sure that Mickey stood on the side-walk and stayed there. “You arrogant piece of shit, I fucking trusted you.”

 

Mickey lets out a manic laugh, face growing red. “You are so full of shit, Ian.” He jabs a finger into Ian's chest, shoving him back a little. “You drove me fucking insane for some god-damn magazine article, don't talk to me about fucking trust, Gallagher. You don't know the meaning of the word.” He grits his teeth, pushing away the thought of beating the shit out of him in the middle of the street.

 

“Yeah, and you told people that you could make _any_ fucking guy fall in love with you, and _I,_ like some fucking dumb dick, I was exhibit A.” Ian flares up, pushing Mickey back harshly, causing the brunette to pull at his tie with frustration, and utter anger. 

 

A suited man walks up, hands between the two. “Excuse me you can'-”

 

“What?!” They both turn simultaneously, their voices grating with fire as they yelled in union.

 

The guy holds his hands up in surrender, moving away from Mickey's death glare. Ian would have laughed at it, he  _ would  _ have and that was the problem. It  _ was  _ all in past tense now. Mickey paces the floor, both laughing with disbelief and disappointment but grumbling with bitterness. “That's all I fucking was to you, some Guinea pig. Someone you can test your shitty theories on?” And oh god, that's all Mickey saw. All he heard pouring from Ian's mouth was now bullshit. All of it. 

 

“And what, I was just some guy someone picked out in a bar?” Ian asks, shaking the tears from his face. See, this was always the case. Ian was always the guy someone picked out in the bar, some guy who was useful for sex but that was it. Someone that would let guys touch him, feel him, fuck him, but would leave him dying on the pavement.

 

“Big fucking deal, Gallagher!” Mickey claps his hands together, a evil smile against his lips, one tha Ian was beginning to fucking hate. “Hey, why don't you add it in for a twist in your story, make me out to be some fucking monster that I _am_ apparently.” 

 

Ian nods, tutting his lips, arms curling around his side. “That's a good idea, why don't we fucking bet on it.”

 

“You know what-” Mickey points a finger in Ian's face, tilting his head as he spoke. “You did you fucking job, Ian, really fucking well.”

 

“Yes, I did.”

 

Mickey leans in further, huffing out a disgruntled laugh, “You wanted to lose a guy in ten fucking days, well you did it. You fucking did it, Ian.” Ian could see Mickey's eye water, the way his fingers shook in the firm hold his thumb had over his fingers. “Congratu-fucking-lations, you just- you just lost him.” He adds, spitting out the words like they were venom.

 

Ian feels his heart drop, his chest burning, his eyes watering more. Before he can speak, Mickey is again interjecting with his thoughts. For once Ian wished Mickey didn't use his words, just this once.

 

Wiping underneath his nose, Mickey grits out like stone. “You're nothing but a warm mouth to me.”

 

Mickey turns on his heel, flipping Ian off for the last time, he starts to stalk towards the steps when Ian calls out, the break in his voice stopping Mickey cold. “No, I didn't Mickey.” and Mickey is confused of how that could be, of how his heart could be shattered by someone who  _ used  _ him, for someone he  _ used.  _ Ian sniffs up, wiping the corner of his mouth. “ 'Cause you can't lose something that you never fucking had.” 

 

Mickey just stands there, watches Ian walk off down the street, his red hair wafting through the night breeze, sticking up at each gust, the air flowing underneath his jacket. There's no response for that, nothing he could possibly say. It was true, Ian was right, because everything had been a sham from the start. The anger and misery cling to his chest, his head spinning.

 

Ian's gone before he has the time to catch a breath.

 

***

The article was done. Lip had seen it,  _ loved  _ it apparently, after Ian nearly beat his ass for telling Mickey how he used him for it. He still felt shit, he wouldn't stop feeling as shit. The whole week he had laid in bed, wallowing towards the wall, hiding away under the burrow of his bed before Fiona and Svetlana barged through, doing everything they could to get him out of it. 

 

After two days, he was out of bed, talking and finally eating. They had not left since, only to go to work but immediately came back afterwards. Svetlana was cursing in Russian over the stove in his apartment, yelling at the pan each time it spat at her and went against her orders. Fiona was curled at his side, rubbing a hand against his chest with comfort, like a hairless cat. It didn't make Ian feel like shit, or less down-hill, but it still helped. That hole in his chest was still sinking, sadness clinging to his skin like air.

 

Fiona had just finished reading the final draft of the article, one hand absently playing with the back of Ian's hair. She had tears in her eyes, one escaping and sliding down her pale cheek and into the side of her brunette hair, she makes a noise of some-what sympathy and makes a little noise when she reads over one particular line. Ian and feel the words burning into his skin, carved into his heart, as he had typed them out only a couple of hours before. It was still fresh in his memory; everything. The ten days, Mickey, the shower, the  _ kiss,  _ the stab to his chest that he hadn't stopped feeling since the dinner. 

 

It was not what he thought he'd write, but it came from a place for years he had tried to hide.

 

“What did Lip say?” Fiona asks, placing the laptop against the coffee table.

 

Ian cradles the coffee he has in his grip, bringing it to his chest to see if it could soothe the coldness brewing in his chest. “He was a fucking dick about it, but he liked it. Said I could write anything I want for the next one.”

 

“Shit, that's great.” Fiona gasps, a smile tugging at her lips.

 

Ian shakes his head, sadly. “Don't get too excited, Fi, he still used the words  _ within reason  _ so It's bullshit basically.” He ducked his head, watching as the curdle in his coffee brewed in the cold liquid. “No politics,no economics, nothing that actually fucking matters. Nothing  _ I  _ want to write.” 

 

“Shit.” Fiona mutters under her breath, her hands rubbing against the nape of his neck, her eyes screaming an apology.

 

Taking a deep breath, Ian closes his eyes when he says. “I quit.”

 

Svetlana squawks from the kitchen, the clatter of the wooden spoon against the pan as she rushes through into the living room, eyes widened. “You fucking did  _ what?”  _

“I did it. I quit, I fucking hate that place anyway.” Ian sighs, giving Svetlana a weak smile as she gasps in shock and upset. “Well, I actually gave notice. I don't know what pissed him off more; that his brother proved him wrong _or_ the fact that he knows he can't control me any more.” 

 

“Fuck.” Fiona looks from Ian to Svetlana, her hand falling to Ian's shoulder to give it a reassuring squeeze. “Good for you, Ian.”

 

Svetlana whacks the back of his side, circling the chair and sitting at his other side, her hand resting on his knee. “Fuck you, orange boy, but I'm glad.” She pulls him into a hug, letting him rest his chin against her bony shoulder, he relishes in the hug; he needed more of those.

 

“I'm sorry.” he rubs a hand against her shoulder, speaking to the both of them. They all deserved better than Lips constant grilling and moaning about how work wasn't being done, or if his coffee was too cold. “I applied to some places in New York.”

 

Fiona and Svetlana gape at each-other in shock, their expressions forming a disagreement with Ian. “ _ New York?”  _

 

“Absolutely fucking not.” Svetlana grits, getting up to go back to the kitchen, shrugging her dressing gown further around herself. “You stay here, fucking family.” She points to the three of them, emerging back into the kitchen unit to save the burning food.

 

Giving Ian a shake, biting her lip, Fiona adds. “You  _ can't  _ move Ian, for fucks sakes.” Ian knew that they were worried for his well being, if he could take his pills, if some creep tries to get into his pants and they are not there, if he could fend for himself. But, Ian knew how to take care of that stuff, it was obvious no one wanted him anyway. 

 

“I need to get out of this place, thistown, this apartment. I can't – they're too many shitty memories around here, I want a fresh start, I want to forget all the shit that's happened.” His thumb runs around the rim of his mug, his chest thumping at the thought of being alone, the thought of being vulnerable to the world. 

 

The again, it had always been like that.

 

“This is your _home,_ Ian. This shitty stuff will always follow you, it's the Gallagher disease remember?” Fiona attempts to persuade him, Svetlana yelling in agreement from the kitchen leading to another clatter of utensils. “See, even 'Lana's got it.” 

 

Ian chuckles, breathing heavily from his nose. He remembers the day that Fiona had said that, the day of his release from the ward, the same day Carl was caught with bags of coke, the day that he flushed his pills and vowed he would never take them. Oh, how times had changed.

 

It didn't stop the feeling of his chest combusting, of his lungs on the verge of break-down.

 

He doesn't say anything, and Fiona takes that as her cue to keep talking. “You don't have to run, Ian. It's a big place, you won't see him again. And if you do? Tell him I'm still waiting to kick his ass.”

 

Nodding, Ian gets pulled back into his mind, the voices just leaving his head. He knows he probably won't see Mickey again, he does. Even if the party had proved that their companies merge, that they will probably bump into each-other at some dinner about print advertisements, he knows he can avoid Mickey if he really wanted to, and he knew Mickey felt like that too. He's just not sure if he wants to, and the easiest option, in order to forget, was removing himself from the place entirely – a clean break, a new chapter, away from Mickey, the situation, the memories, from  _ Men's Wear.  _

 

This time he just needed to take the easiest route.

 

But when he looked towards his best-friends, his sister and his Russian, it said otherwise. They had been there from the start, from when he walked through those office doors bringing in coffee, to when he had his first big article printed. Through all of his ups and downs, his breaks, his flushing of pills, his wallowing pit of darkness; they had been there. He didn't want to be away from that, did he?

 

“I don't fucking know yet, Jeez.” He laughs, placing his cold cup down next to his laptop. “The places might not even want me, I might not get even _one_ interview.” he ignores the willing look of his sister beside him, the stomping of feet that came from the kitchen. 

 

–

 

He does get an interview, of course he does. Despite the ultimate disagreement from the two, Fiona and 'Lana had made sure he had one, even if it was just the one, because they knew that Ian hated the place, that he couldn't breathe with the thought that he might see Mickey walking down the street, or in the same bar they had met in.

 

It's at a website, that covers everything from health to beauty, poverty to the average wage of a Chicago male; one of the largest in the state. He'd have to move of course, leave Chicago and the people behind. The salary count was crazy high, extremely better than  _ Men's Wear  _ by far,  _ and  _ they let him write what he wanted. Just like he dreamed of. 

 

Fiona takes him to the airport that day, her eyes already glazing through her uncontrollable sensitivity. Ian feels his heart shed, rip a little, he was leaving his sister in another state, thinking about leaving  _ everything  _ behind. If he got this job, he'd lose everything he loved, for something he dreamed of.

 

As he jumped out of the car, he leans down to duck his head in the window, planting a kiss onto Fiona's cheek. “Thanks, I don't know what I'd do without you.”

 

“You'd probably be working in some fucking club, wouldn't you?” She raises her brow, knowing that Ian would never be more grateful for the day she had saved him from that club, the day that his life had its turning point and he realised what he was losing. “Now shut up and go smash it.”

 

Ian waves all the way towards the check out desk, thinking through the whole ride about how he would just do that. For the first time hope blooms in his chest, his eyes constantly scanning over his notes with nerves.

 

The good thing was; he fucking smashed that mother fucker.

 

***

Yet again, Mickey is shoved into a small cramped room filled of models and photographers. He thought that dating, going to a fucking concert, eating shitty vegetarian food was his own hell. But this, the humid air and the sweaty stench; this was fucking hell. He stands to the side, sending off pointless orders as he gulps down yet another glass of water, pretending that Jesus would swoop in and turn it into alcohol.

 

At least the shots were good, well hopefully, he thinks. For the past week he had been between frustrated and angry and he's not sure if they mix well, but its definitely riding through the whole of his body. Everything was dull and grey, and he was so fucking tired ever since- 

 

That's when he retreats his thoughts. He was not thinking about Ian, not now. Not ever. Revisiting that memory would make him flare up, most likely punch a wall or  _ someone,  _ and he didn't want the trouble of being fired piling up on his list of frustration. 

 

Mandy is rushing through the cramped space, a rolled up magazine in her hands, her face all flushed as if she had been running. “Mick-”

 

“Where the fuck have you been?” Mickey explodes, slamming his drink against the table of food. Mandy was meant to arrive an hour ago, she was supposed to be there so Mickey didn't stab himself during the load up of models and never-ending shoots. “You were meant to be here a fucking hour ago? Did you end up fucking our driver?”

 

“Fuck off.” Mandy scowls, before carrying on. “I was at the office, sorting _your_ paper work out. Now, listen,” 

 

Mickey's eyebrows hist his hairline, turning his head with a snarl. “Oh, so while I'm in here literally melting because of the fucking heat, you're lounging around in the office? Why did we even pick this shit dump anyway, couldn't we have somewhere that isn't frying me like a fucking chicken leg. You know, I blame you. I blame you for your shitty ass suggestions.” Mickey rants, hands wavering around as his stress finally took its toll.

 

“Would you calm the fuck down?”

 

“No. I fucking hate it in here.”

 

Mandy rolls her eyes, shoving him in the chest with her freehand. “John liked it, so deal with it, asshole.” She pulls out the magazine from under arm, “Now would you just listen to me-”

 

As she holds up the magazine Mickey can feel his heart shut down and stop, his voice clogging in the base of his throat. It's the newest copy of  _ Men's Wear  _ magazine, and his eyes dart straight to the newest headline just below the magazines best suit collection : “How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days.” That's when the anger barrelled in. “Why the fuck do you have that?” 

 

“I read it and-”

 

“You read it?” Mickey spits, eyes narrowing with anger. “Are you fucking kidding me, you _read_ it after he used me for its fucking content. Are you serious right now? We're family and you're siding with that dick?!” He knows his voice is growing louder, more stronger, and a few techs nearby stop and stare into him like hawks. Mickey grabs harshly at Mandy's elbow, dragging her away from the set. “You were there for the whole thing, couldn't you get enough of it?” 

 

Shoving off his arm, she shows him her middle finger, “You are such an idiot, you know that. Of course I was on your fucking side, I just had a feeling, okay.” She pulls out the magazine again, watching as Mickey's face stirs up again, she pushes it towards him. “You should read it. I fucking mean it.”

 

There was no way he was reading about how he got fucking mugged off, drove insane, just to prove how people fuck up relationships. This was why he didn't get into them in the first place. “Fuck off, I'm not reading that shit.”

“You _need_ to.” 

 

Shoving it back, Mickey goes to walk away before she's clutching to his wrist. He didn't have time to read Ian's bullshit story. “What I need to fucking do is my  _ job.  _ You know, the thing that helps us pay rent every month?” 

 

“Fine.” Mandy lets go, flipping open the magazine, thumbing a few pages before she gets to the one that she wants. “I will read it to you, and you will fucking listen or I'll kill you in your sleep.” Her eyes scan the page, trying to find the starting point, it only makes Mickey more angry.

 

He didn't want to hear Ian's words, he didn't want to listen to her telling him what he already knew. He didn't want to think of Ian anymore.

 

Standing, hardly listening, he doesn't bother to give in to his sisters pleads, until he starts to catch what she's saying, tuning in as she speaks Ian's words, “...biggest mistake of my life. I mean, it strange really. It turns out the guy I was getting rid of is the only one I've ever wanted to keep.”

 

“Wait, what the _fuck?”_ Mickey goes cold, his face flushing hot, trying to recount the words in his head. Did Ian actually write that? He didn't know what to feel, he just went kind of numb, his fingers digging into his sides. It wasn't rocket science, he had started to fall for Ian, definitely on the tracks until the dinner. It wasn't like Ian had left his mind for the past week, more than anything he was there _more_ now they were apart. 

 

The trip, the laugh, the kiss (Oh, god the kiss), the sex, the fucking  _ spooning,  _ even the god-damn concert that Ian had drove him into. 

 

It still didn't leave his mind.

 

Mandy sighs, rolling her eyes, she holds the magazine out to him, the pages of writing staring back at his face. “I'm telling you, fuckhead, read it.”

 

So, Mickey does. He prepares himself for what he might read, if Mandy was lying to him, if Ian's words actually meant something else. Taking the magazine, surrounded by sweat and humid heat that made his clothes stick to his skin, and the clicks of cameras. He reads it, eyes widening and eyebrows raising with each word;

 

_Everyone says “A thug is a thug” but Mickey had definitely changed. I hadn't noticed how much he meant after all the insane stunts I kept pulling on him, all the lies and acts I put on. I could tell he was irritated with me, that he literally wanted to punch me in the face each time I spoke, and to be honest I really wanted to do that myself._

 

_It was the night we went to his Mom's place, it was just the three of us. Layla had cooked us dinner, poured us wine and we spoke about south-side, my family, how I wanted to be in the army but all ends failed. There was a point during that moment that I caught Mickey smiling, he had poured the wine onto the tablecloth by accident, bashfully hiding his face when I started to laugh._

 

_That's when I knew._

 

_That's when I knew that this was more than an article. After that weekend I rang up my boss and I begged and pleaded for him not to publish the article, not to make me write it, but he thought it had potential, and when I found out about the bet I felt I needed to tell someone this, because it still hurts._

_I learnt my lesson; you can't push the person you love away, without wanting them closer than they had ever been before._

 

Mickey looks up, mouth wide open as his muttered the last sentence over again. Ian wasn't going to write the article. How could he risk his career, just for him? He stares, wide eyed, towards his sister, trying to think of ways to make it up to Ian already. How could he do that? How could he just try and fix things when he fucked it up in the first place. “I have to go.”

 

“Fucking _finally._ ” Mandy knocks her head back with a groan, shaking her head amused. She takes the magazine and hits it towards Mickey's head, giggling. “Go, get your hot redhead and tell him how you feel. I'll cover for you ass.” Unexpected as it could be, Mickey wraps his sister up in a hug, crushing her sides. “Okay, can't breathe here. You can fuck off now.” 

 

Mickey lets go, smiling wildly in excitement; not only to see Ian, but he knew as soon as he would see him there was no way they wouldn't kiss. He bolts, rushing over to his bike and pulling his helmet on. In a beat he's already on the road to  _ Men's Wear,  _ his heart like wildfire, spreading blood all around his body in adrenaline. Flipping off the receptionist, Mickey rushes through the halls and down into the offices that apparently Ian worked in. He scanned the room, cubicle after cubicle until he saw a dash of red. But there was row and row of blonde and browns, maybe one red but it had tits below it. 

 

When he skids towards the end corner of the room, the first thing he sees is a wilted fern, stuck sadly in the corner of a very empty desk. He crosses the room, his heart pounding, head spinning, and he grabs the pot into his arms, staring the expanse of the gleaming desk, a wheelie chair stuck neatly underneath the desk. Either, he has stolen someone’s dying plant, or Ian's a clean freak who doesn't  _ ever  _ bring anything to work. 

 

But Ian never missed work, he was one of those  _ I can't take a day off because I feel guilty  _ types and he had made it very clear the one day Mickey tried to cut a day off work. 

 

“Hey, you.” someone says behind him, Mickey turns to see a very familiar face. Her dark, wavy hair some-what sending him to deja vu, her jaw and glinting eyes burrowed into his memory. She steps around the desk, her arms folded. Mickey just thinks its another receptionist, ready to kick him out, until he feels someone nudge in his back.

 

“What the fuck.” He mutters, turning to the touch. Like a fire breathing dragon, a woman stood before him, her eyes in slits are she mutters incoherently under her breath. Wait, was that even English? _Oh,_ this was his Russian. 

 

With a hard jab to her chest, she warns. “You hurt orange boy I'll chop your fucking dick off and shove it down your throat.” Her threat is confirmed when her hands twists in the fabric of his shirt, her teeth gritting together.

 

Mickey could say he was scared, but he really wasn't, he had learnt the hard way through running a house of whores which way women fought. “Would you back the fuck off, Jesus.” Some others turn from their desks, eyes squinting at the unknown visitor. The Russian mutters under her breath, arms folding, as she stepped backwards away from Mickey.

 

 

“He's gone.” The girl says, but then he realises; without the glasses, the linen clothing, that was there therapist, their counsellor. That didn't make any sense. Mickey's ears only catch onto _gone,_ Ian was gone? Gone where? It made him want to puke, made him want to crush the pot in his hands, because he seriously had no idea what he was doing.

 

“What do you mean, _gone?”_ And he knows he doesn't have the right to ask that, the know where Ian was. But if they didn't tell him he'd find out anyway. There were a couple of things that he needed to say to Ian, _a lot_ of things that he hadn't even noticed were there until he had read that article, since he felt himself become nothing ever since the redhead wasn't chasing his tail every five minutes.

 

“Quit. Not here.”

 

Mickey doesn't wait for an explanation, he didn't want one. He begins to walk away, the fern stuck to his chest, when he stops before the brunette. “You're not a fucking therapist, are you?” Ian was so dead when he saw him.

 

“Uh, shit.” She splutters, hand twirling in his hand. “No, I'm not.”

 

Mickey's sure her face is familiar, that the features are some-what recognisable. “Who the fuck are you? His _groupies?”_ He asks, waving over to Svetlana who still looked like she wanted to murder him with a pitch fork, Fiona shakes her head laughing.

 

“He fucking wishes.” She leans against the empty desk, her hand idly laying across the white surface. “Nah, I'm his sister, that's 'Lana his Russian.” That explained a lot, why her nose was the same, where her sweetness radiated off her just like Ian's had. How did he not see it?

 

Mickey exchanges glances between the two, still confused. “You're the sister that fucked the cop, right? The one who left that ton of coke out and the little one ate it or some shit?” Ian had told him that story vividly, on the last morning of the weekend, they were cuddled up in eachothers warm, holding their hands together like they knew it their whole lives.

 

“Guilty.” Fiona raises her hands up in surrender, shame hinting over her eyes. “Just don't repeat that, I don't want to be reminded of it.”

 

“Got it.”

 

Fiona clenches her jaw, looking over to Svetlana with a worried expression, considering. Mickey grips to the pot of the fern, looking a little worse for wear after riding in the cargo compartment on his bike, her eyes flick down to it, huffing out. “He's moving to New York.” That's when Mickey's heart plummets to the ground, his breath catching in his throat.

 

“What- what the fuck for?” He asks, his voice a little shaky as he shuffled on his feet. New York? That far? Why would Ian do such a thing. Oh, wait. He already knew the answer to that question.

 

Fiona makes a face, almost sympathetically with a short smile, she nods towards Svetlana before answering. “Wants a new life, wants to forget a couple of people.” Her eyes flicker guilty to Mickey's, shrugging as she had nothing else to say. Just one more thing, something she knew Ian would both hate and love her for, “He's at his apartment.”

 

“What?”

 

Svetlana whacks him over the head, grunting beside him. “You fucking deaf? Orange boy is in apartment, most likely tugging his dick off or worse watching that programme he always watches.”

 

“Son's of Anarchy?” Mickey interjects, his heart beating faster once he remembered Ian's words _that_ night. The night he couldn't sleep because his mind was invaded by Ian fucking Gallagher.

 

Svetlana nods, scowling towards the thought. “Yes, fucking shit.”

 

“You watch it?” Fiona asks, boarding the topic in a different direction that Mickey fucking hated.

 

“No, but he talked about it once.” Mickey admits, hating himself for using past tense. He shifts the fern higher against his chest, telling himself that this was the time to move, this was the time to go find Ian and make sure that he didn't leave. “I guess, I've got to go talk to him, then. Er, fucking thanks?”

 

Svetlana scoffs, waving her hair behind her shoulder. “Very polite.”

 

Mickey turns and flips her off with his freehand, Fiona laughing behind them. He pivots, and nods towards the two. As he walks out, he makes sure he yells. “You owe me two hundred bucks!”

 

***

That's how he ended up there, stood outside the unfamiliar, but known door to Ian's apartment. The fern was tight in his grip, the leaves sagging against his suit arm. He hasn't knocked yet, not sure if he really wanted to, he wasn't sure what he wanted. Never had he been sure. But he knocks anyway, lighter than usual, hoping that Ian didn't hear it so he had chance to run away.

 

There's a couple of mumbles, some curses, a slam of a foot, a drop of a key, then quickly the door swings open, a redhead topless, sweats hanging off his hips, hair spread across the top of his head, answered. Mickey couldn't breathe in the sight, it was _beautiful._ “Oh I'm- shit, Mickey?” His eyes widen, green popping out against the pale skin.

 

“Gallagher.” Is all he can get out. God, he never felt like such a pussy until now.

 

Ian rolls his eyes, scoffing at the speechless behaviour of the man in front of him. “What the fuck do you want, Mickey? Haven't you had enough of playing your fucking games, huh.” Ian slams his hand against the door, waiting to close it or even slam it shut.

 

“I need to talk to you.” Mickey manages, biting at the bottom of his lip, drawing a little blood from the crack skin. “You can't go to New York, you fucking can't.”

 

“I don't want to fucking hear it.” Ian spat, shaking his head with a snarl, a vile noise echoing from his throat in disgust. “Why don't you go back to your fucking office, call out to that bar and find someone else you can make fall in love with you, I'm sure it's not that hard if you got me, right?”

 

“No.” Mickey blandly cut through, tone strong and willing.

 

“No what?” Ian asks, challenging him with a slight mockingly attitude, hand reaching his hip as he waited for Mickey to react. It was like he was pushing him, making fun of him, for not being able to tell his feelings, or not. Maybe, it was a test, something Ian had thought through to see how much Mickey felt.

 

Mickey shakes his head, clicking his teeth together as he hovered awkwardly in the hallway. “Don't make me say it asswipe.”

 

“Say what?”

 

Sighing, Mickey rubs his hand across his face, he really could speak. The words were there, on the brink of his tongue, dancing across his taste buds. It was just the action of letting them out, letting the words flow through into Ian's ears, in his mind. “That I can fucking go in the- because, fuck it. I can't make someone else fall for me, because I've already fell.” he lets out his gasp, the air that was trapped in his lungs, “And it really fucking hurt.”

 

It was obvious by Ian's face that he hadn't expected that, his eyes had widened, his mouth fully open like a fish in a tank. “You – what?” his eyes clasp to the fern, heart swelling towards the image of Mickey holding it just as he would.

 

The older boys nods, placing the fern against the doorway with a smile. “I read your article.” He starts, heart in his throat, he can visibly see Ian tense before him. “It wasn't what I expected, I'll tell ya, I thought you'd write about how I fight like a fucking animal, _or_ the fact I used you for some dumb fucking bet, god, you have no idea how dumb that was.”

 

Ian clears the gruffness from his throat, fiddling with the crack against his wooden door, picking at it as he avoided eye contact. “It wasn't what I expected either.” And it wasn't, he wanted to write about how much of a dick Mickey was, how much he hurt him and used him, but his heart stopped him. Sometimes that's the best option; the heart, the pumping fusion in the centre of your body that saves you every day. “And it isn't dumb, if you didn't bet and I didn't make this fucking article,we would of never met.”

 

Mickey agrees, wiping a hand under his nose, he hums. “I would of never hurt you.”

 

“I hurt you too.” Ian replies, almost in an instant.

 

And Mickey can't deny that, he was _still_ hurting a little bit. “I know.” He can't help but think of how this would end, if they would make up, if Ian would just shut him out like he should, but maybe – somehow, things would sort themselves out. “Did you mean what you said?”

 

“Every single fucking word.” Ian concludes, finally looking up towards Mickey in a civil manner, eyes twinkling with tears. It was genuine, Mickey could see that, he could see how much Ian wanted to curl into himself, slam the door, hide away from the world.

 

Mickey lunges forward, grabbing the back of Ian's neck and the side of his hip and pulling them against his. The redhead is tense a first, both in shock but still indecisive at this point, until he curls his own hand around Mickey's wrist, lips opening up to let Mickey's tongue inside. It was electric, like a spark hitting them in all the right places. Mickey wasn't sure how he had lasted a week without this, how he survived without Ian giggling into his mouth, or the soft touch of his fingers.

 

God, when did he become such a fucking girl.

 

Ian's hands wrap around his waist, pushing their chests together, when he pulls apart for some air, he asks, voice soft and husky. “You remember that question; All's fair in love and war-”

 

Mickey knew what the next question would be, and he knew exactly what Ian was referring to. Their love had definitely been a war, a hell of a fucking opposition and bulky weaponry, but they got there in the end, to the other side. He grabs at the drawstrings of Ian's sweats, pulling him closer if that was possible. “It's still fucking true.”

 

They knew they'd have to talk about it – there was so many things that needed to be sorted, especially the fact Ian could still be moving – but right there, that moment, Mickey couldn't give a shit about their rent-paying jobs, and the past aggravating memories, or the fact that their past would always catch up to them. All he wants to do is have this chance to kiss Ian, push him backwards into his apartment, pin him down to the bed and _really_ show him how hard he had fallen for him.

 

It wasn't strange, or surprising, that Ian was thinking the exact same thing.


End file.
